


The Way It Is

by phantomofsam



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur deserves a happy ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, High Honor Arthur Morgan, John is a literal child, Major Spoilers, Not Beta Read, Post-Canon, Protective Arthur Morgan, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, no TB for Arthur, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 57,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24559975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomofsam/pseuds/phantomofsam
Summary: Irish pulled John and Arthur’s shoulders back towards the caves, pushing them down as she sent a few shots back towards the people that she used to call her friends.More gunshots rang out from everywhere. She kept urging the boys forward. Irish lit a lamp as they ran deeper and deeper into the cave. She had been through here once and found the secret exit. Even if they had been in the dark, she could have found it but she wasn’t taking any risks. Pinkertons shouted behind them. Agent Ross or whatever his name was told them to freeze, stop running, and he ordered his men to find them. Irish wasn’t going to let that happen. She led them to the ladder.“Go, go!” She said, pushing John towards it. “Fuckin’ climb!”Irish Hammond has run with the Van der Linde gang for years. She stood and watched it fall apart before her. She'll be damned if she lets it take Arthur Morgan with it.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 104
Kudos: 104





	1. That's the Way it Is

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is the final mission but Arthur doesn't die! Because I love him and he deserves good things.
> 
> Amongst the craziness of the world right now, I felt like I needed a little bit of an escape and Arthur Morgan is my escape now apparently. Anyway, if you are out there protesting, make sure you're staying safe!

She sat quietly in Beaver’s Hollow, cleaning her trusty pistol and pretending to ignore Micah and his loud mouth. The train job had gone better than they’d hoped but John… John was dead. Arthur and Sadie had ridden off to get Abigail back from the Pinkertons because Dutch had refused to. Dutch would rather have let his friend’s son be orphaned than go to get Abigail back. Things had been changing in the gang for a long time. Irish had seen it coming for a long time. She had never thought she’d see the day that Dutch would just abandon his own people. And at the word of Micah Bell, of all people! It hurt. It was time to move on from the Van der Linde gang, she could see that now. It was only a matter of when and how. Her heart stung as she thought of leaving Javier and Bill, as brutish as the latter was. She had been with them for 12 years. 12 years that she would never see again. There weren’t any other options now.

“Get them bags packed up quick, Miss Grimshaw,” Micah ordered. “And you, Hammond, get off your ass and help out.”

Irish ignored Micah, refocusing on her gun. In the chaos of everyone fleeing here, that was when she would peel off from the group. Maybe she’d be able to convince Susan to leave with her, too. God, she wanted to slap some sense into Dutch. It was too late for that. She knew that, somewhere, but it was still her first instinct.

“Hurry up! We don’t got much time,” Micah barked.

As she felt herself falling deeper into her own thoughts, Irish heard Arthur’s voice echo through the camp. She holstered her gun quickly and looked up, expecting to see Abigail and Sadie with him. But he was alone. He was alone and he was angry. His hat hung low over his eyes. Worry built in Irish’s chest. Arthur jumped off of his horse. He was walking with a dedicated purpose.

“We just got plenty of time, Micah,” Arthur said. “We all need to have a little chat.”

“Morgan. You’re back. Hooray.”

Dutch slowly emerged from his tent. The canvas flap moved shut behind him. The sight of their once great leader no longer filled Irish with a sense of pride. A sense of duty, like she was doing the right thing in her life. Arthur and Dutch slowly walked towards each other. If a stranger had come into the camp right then, they wouldn’t have seen two old friends welcoming each other. They would have seen two men, two enemies, having their final confrontation. It wasn’t so hard for Irish to believe that Dutch and Colm O’Driscoll had been friendly once now as she watched those two regard each other.

“I just had a little chat with Agent Milton, Dutch. Abigail shot him. She’s okay… not that you care too much about that.”

Micah, Cleet, and Joe started to stalk towards Arthur. It was like watching a cougar eyeing her meal. Irish pushed herself to her feet and moved behind her friend. Her hand was hovering over her guns, willing Micah to give her a reason to fire. Dutch stopped walking. His eyes never left Arthur. Susan stopped packing and looked from both sides of the camp. Arthur turned to Micah and his men, effectively stopping them in their tracks.

“You rats,” he scoffed. “All of ya. Seems old Micah was pretty good friends with Milton.”

“What the hell are you talking about, cowpoke?”

“You talked.”

Those words. Those two simple words made so much click together. Micah talked. Hell, there had been problems before Guarma, but after then, even when the rest of the gang was being careful, things still seemed to go wrong. Micah was even closer in Dutch’s ear. It seemed like that was the only person their leader would listen to for anything. Micah talked. Dutch’s actions hadn’t been entirely his own as things progressed. Because Micah talked.

“That’s a goddamn lie.” Micah hissed.

“Dutch…” Arthur’s voice was wavering. He, too, still hoped that his friend, his mentor, was still there.

“Dutch, think of the future.”

Dutch stood by his tent, looking at both men in confusion. Even from where Irish was, she could see the conflict in his eyes. The fight between who he was becoming and who he used to be. His mouth was slightly agape, as if in disbelief as Arthur continued speaking.

“Milton told me.”

“And you believed him, Morgan? You believe him?”

“It all makes sense now.” 

“No, it damn well doesn’t.”

Arthur drew his pistol, aiming for Micah’s head. Irish was quick behind him, aiming at Joe while Cleet struggled with his gun. Bill stood from the table, gun in hand but unsure of what to do. Slowly, he raised his repeater towards Arthur. Irish’s hand was steady. She pulled her second gun, aiming for Bill. Oh, Bill. They had spent some good years together. She refused to hesitate.

“Dutch, think!”

“Dutch, be practical now.”

“Dutch!”

Irish’s heart sang as a painfully familiar voice came through the fog and tension. She turned to see John walking towards camp, holding his arm and limping towards them all. She held back a happy sob as she saw him. He was alive. He survived. And Dutch lied about it. Had he even gone back to check on him? Once, anyone would have insisted that John was the golden boy. John was the favourite. John was the one that Dutch would have done anything for. Just another example of just how far he had really fallen from grace. Oh, to go back to those days when things seemed so much simpler. So much better.

“You left me! You left me to die!” John’s voice was dripping with venom and his eyes were filled with rage as he looked to Dutch van der Linde.

Dutch’s eyes were wide in shock. He started walking towards John slowly. “My boy, I didn’t have a choice. John, I didn’t…”

“You-”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“-left me!”

“All of you, you pick your side now, because this is over. All them years, Dutch,” Arthur shook his head, “for this snake?!”

Micah chuckled. “Be quiet, cowpoke, be quiet. You live in the clouds.”

“No, you be quiet, Mr. Bell,” Grimshaw spoke. She walked into the fray with her trusty shotgun. “And put your gun down,” she sneered.

“There’s Pinkertons coming!” Javier ran from down the hill.

Jesus, how many more people were going to burst into their camp today?

Micah took Javier’s distraction in stride. He fired one shot into Miss Grimshaw’s stomach. Irish moved both guns to train on Micah. Her eyes were stinging with tears. She may have fought with Susan over things, but she had always loved the woman. She was one of the people who made Irish feel like she belonged in the gang when she first got there. Irish’s finger was close to pulling back on the trigger. Dutch pulled his guns, pointing them at Micah and Arthur. 

“Now! Who amongst you is with me and who is betrayin’ me?!” Dutch demanded.

Dutch moved towards the treeline. Arthur and Irish backed closer to the cave, John as close as he could get. They were the only three people leaving Dutch’s side. Irish tightened her jaw. If that was how it had to be, then that was what she was going to do. Bill and Javier stood behind Dutch. Bill, a man she had called her brother, was aiming his gun at her, no remorse or regret in his eyes. Javier still seemed unsure of what to do, but he knew he had to stay with Dutch. The man she once would have said was like a father was aiming his guns at her. All because of a traitor he still trusted. How had they let things get this bad? Micah continued to insist that Arthur was lying. Before the firefight could begin, the Pinkertons started yelling. Irish pulled John and Arthur’s shoulders back towards the caves, pushing them down as she sent a few shots back towards the people that she used to call her friends.

More gunshots rang out from everywhere. She kept urging the boys forward. Irish lit a lamp as they ran deeper and deeper into the cave. She had been through here once and found the secret exit. Even if they had been in the dark, she could have found it but she wasn’t taking any risks. Pinkertons shouted behind them. Agent Ross or whatever his name was told them to freeze, stop running, and he ordered his men to find them. Irish wasn’t going to let that happen. She led them to the ladder.

“Go, go!” She said, pushing John towards it. “Fuckin’ climb!”

She waited until they were both up before climbing herself. She hit the lamp against the stone walls of the cave. Kerosene splashed her leg but she didn’t care as she poured it onto the ladder. This was the only way she could think of to make sure the Pinkertons couldn’t follow them out here. Irish was pulled up the rest of the way by Arthur. She reached into his satchel and found his matchbook. 

“This is gonna have to do.” She struck a match on her boot and let it fall onto the ladder. 

The three of them ran from the exit. The trio kept moving, kept running, until they were far from the cave. Arthur and John whistled for their horses. Irish had one of her pistols out. She was waiting for someone to show up. They had two groups after them now. They had to get off of this damn mountain before they got caught by Micah or the Pinkertons.

“Thank you,” he said, “for believin’ me,”

“‘Course, Arthur,” Irish said.

“Can we talk about this later?” John snapped as the horses came into view.

Arthur lifted Irish into the saddle behind him. She had one arm wrapped around his waist as they started riding through the forest. She hadn’t even had time to properly process that John was still alive, what with all the chaos going on. It didn’t seem like there were Pinkertons following them, but Irish knew that could change at any moment. She kept her eyes peeled. She studied every movement in the trees.

“Those bastards left me for dead!” John yelled.

“Seems that’s what they do now,” Arthur responded.

“And here I was wastin’ my time savin’ your sorry asses all these years. If I’da known I coulda left you I would’ve!” Irish shook her head.

“Is now the time to be sarcastic, Hammond?!”

“It’s now or never, Marston!”

“Micah was the rat, John. Milton told me,” Arthur said.

“Figures. We shoulda killed him months ago!”

Irish was inclined to agree. She went over all of the times she could have left the bastard for dead or shot him in the back. There was no use in focusing on things that couldn’t be changed now. They had to get John to his family, at least. He was the only one of the three had actually had people waiting for him now. Arthur glanced back at Irish and she knew that he agreed. It didn’t matter if the two of them died here as long as John was safe.

“Abigail’s at Copperhead Landing with Jack. Tilly and Sadie, too. We’re gonna get you there, John. Once we get these damned Pinkertons off our backs!” Arthur’s voice rose above the wind.

“Thank you. Thank you, brother,” John said.

“Don’t look back, John. When you find them, don’t you dare look back. Like I said.”

Irish could see John nodding his head in understanding. They must have been talking about getting John and his family out for a long time before this. That was good. That meant that they were ready for this. They were ready to run as far and as fast as they could. Irish just had to make sure that they actually got that chance. She lightly squeezed Arthur’s waist as her way of silently showing him she would help. She would do whatever it took to get John to them, even if it meant dying herself. The gang was dead. Her family was dead. There was nothing out there waiting for her. If she did die on that mountain, there wasn’t anyone waiting to mourn for her. And she was okay with that. 

It wasn’t long into the ride before they almost ran headfirst into Dutch’s group. They started shooting at the trio without mercy. Arthur expertly maneuvered his horse out of the line of fire. John was close behind him. Irish aimed backwards haphazardly, not really caring if she hit anything this time. It just needed to be enough noise to maybe spook one or two of their horses. Micah yelled at them from behind, promising that they’d all be dead soon enough. Irish takes one look back. She can’t even see the white coat of the Count anymore. 

“Pinkertons ahead!” John announced,

Irish cursed under her breath as she fired a few more bullets. She heard the click of an empty chamber and started reloading while the boys cut through the river. John started to lead them further and further up the mountain and further and further away from Copperhead Landing. They had to lose their “friends” before they could get there. Irish knew that. It seemed like the further along they went, the more guns they were met with. John did his best to lead them through the trees. After what seemed like an eternity, the treeline broke. Irish looked back into the forest. This wasn’t a good development. They were just more in the open now. Irish aimed her pistol again.

Before she could pull the trigger, she felt herself getting thrown into the air. Irish hit the ground. Hard. Her body started rolling down. She felt John’s hand on her arm, stopping her from going any further back into danger. Arthur was kneeling next to his horse, gently patting her head and whispering to her while she passed. Irish looked around wildly. She found her pistol in the grass and picked it up. She walked to Arthur. Gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We’ve gotta go, Arthur. We gotta move, now,” she said.

He nodded. “I know. I know! Just… gimme a minute.”

“We ain’t got a minute, hun, we gotta go. Now.”

He looked at the ground. With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet. He leaned down to pick up his hat. Arthur looked back down the mountain. Back towards Beaver’s Hollow. He shook his head. Irish watched him curiously.

“All right, let’s go. I’m gonna get you out of this bullshit if it’s the last goddamn thing I do.”

John took Arthur’s hand for a moment. All the years of them fighting seemed to fade away in that moment. They were finally able to forgive each other for everything that had happened. Irish wished silently that it could have come about in a different way. A better way. 

“All right, that’s enough of the man love for now,” Irish said with a slight smirk, “we gotta go before they come back. C’mon, this way!”

She started running up. Arthur and John followed closely behind. Irish forced herself to forget all of the times she had had in the Van der Linde gang as she shot indiscriminately at those she saw on the mountain. She forced herself to forget that Dutch had saved her life more than once. She remembered how Hosea was killed. The memory of his body there in the street was more than enough to fuel the fire within her. She was going to get out of this and she was going to put a bullet into Micah herself. That was her last goal before she died.

Irish pushed against a rock as she turned a corner to get to higher ground. The boys were still a little ways behind her. She spun around. It was higher ground, all right, but there wasn’t anywhere to take cover. They would get killed if they stayed there. It wasn’t any better further down. Truly a damned if they did, damned if they didn’t type of situation. She cursed loudly, kicking a stone over the edge. Arthur looked around. He nodded.

“All right then, here’s the plan. You two are gonna get the hell outta here. Don’t you argue with me, Irish. This is the only way. I’ll stay here and keep as many of the bastards back as I can. But you gotta get John to his family,” Arthur said with a nod.

“No. No! I ain’t leavin’ you here, Arthur!” Irish protested.

“Darlin’, you ain’t got no choice. Get him outta here. Get him to his woman and child safely.” Arthur put his satchel around her shoulders. 

“Don’t call me darlin’,” Irish said weakly.

Arthur chuckled. “I know. Just go. I’ll meet you there if I can. Now go. Go!”

He pushed her towards John. John looked up at Arthur. Arthur nodded. This was what he wanted. They weren’t going to talk him out of this. Even if they could, they certainly didn’t have the time for it. Irish and John started running. Arthur was shouting, telling, no, daring the Pinkertons to come for him. Irish refused to look back to him as the gunshots started. She couldn’t. She knew that as soon as she did, she’d be right back up there with him, firing and fighting. Irish reached for John’s hand. She was going to keep him as close as she could as they ran. 

Her feet slid to a stop on the rough stone. She looked around. There had to be a way out of this. A better way out of this. John was catching his breath. Just as Irish was about to start pulling him a different way, she saw a flash of a leather coat. Micah’s coat. The rage she had been holding in was just about ready to burst.

“That’s it. I’m endin’ this, once and for fuckin’ all,” she sneered. “John, I’ve gotta kill that bastard.”

He looked up at her. “Make sure you don’t miss,”

Irish smiled. She was a better shot than that. She hugged John. She kept one hand on the back of his head. She wanted to remember this moment. She wanted to commit John to memory forever. Irish stepped away. John held her hand for a moment. 

“Thank you, sister, for everything.”

“Don’t mention it. Just get to your family. Get them safe.”

“Thank you.”

He turned and started running. Irish watched him for a moment. He was going to be okay, she knew it. That kid always seemed to have things work out for him. This wouldn’t be any different. Irish turned on her heel and ran back the way she came. She kept her gun in her hand. She had pictured this day so many times back in camp. She could hardly wait to see what it actually looked like when Micah was begging for mercy under her boot. There were no Pinkertons around her now. It seemed like Arthur had succeeded in leading them off. Wherever he was, she hoped that he had at least managed to get somewhere safe. She’d hate for him to see just how blatantly she’d ignored his last order.

Irish rounded a corner. Her heart dropped to her feet as she looked on. She was rendered speechless for what felt like the first time in her life.

Micah was standing on Arthur’s neck, laughing maniacally about this situation. Arthur barely looked like himself. There was no way that Arthur had lost this fight unless he had thrown it to protect her and John as they ran. Irish saw Micah aiming one of his precious guns at Arthur. She didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger on her own pistol.Two gunshots sounded. Blood spurted out from the wound, hitting the dirt as Micah fell over the ridge. Irish ran towards Arthur, begging him not to be dead.

“Don’t you dare die on me now, Morgan, not after all of this shit. You don’t get to take the easy way out you bastard,” she said.

“Not… ow… not dead yet.” Arthur coughed.

“Good. Not dead is good. C’mon, cowboy, let’s get you outta here.”

She put one of Arthur’s arms around her shoulders and struggled to get him to his feet. He helped as best as he could, but he was pretty much useless.

“Bastard shot my leg,” he said, “hurts like a bitch,”

“Shut up for a minute, Arthur, I’m tryin’ to come up with a plan,”

Ultimately, she decided down the mountain was probably the best bet. Slowly, as slowly as she could while still running and supporting Arthur, she started to move down, watching her steps as she went. Arthur was a lot heavier than she thought he’d be. She supposed it made sense, considering. She turned a corner and almost ran directly into the fine silk vest of Dutch himself. She looked up. Instantly, her pistol was aimed at his head. He held up his hands and looked from her to Arthur.

“Your pet rat’s dead, Dutch. I shot him myself. Fell over the ridge down there,”

Dutch opened his mouth to speak. Irish’s eyes flicked up. More Pinkertons. She kept her gun trained on Dutch as he ran away. She kept pushing Arthur further. She held on as best she could. Irish’s foot slipped as she moved further down. Arthur was sent tumbling from her arms and further down. She cussed and made her way back to him, apologising. He was next to a curtain of lichen. His arm was passing through it. Curious, Irish stuck her head through. It was a cave. A well hidden cave. With the last of her strength, she pulled Arthur inside and hoped that would be enough to keep them safe.


	2. If We Have Each Other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, the adventure continues! With minimal editing because we have no beta. We die like men.

Irish looked around the cave. It went back about four meters and was wide enough for them both to be able to move around comfortably. Not that Arthur would be moving much for a while. If the cave had ever been used by animals, they were long gone now. That was a relief. She didn’t want to be there if a momma bear had made it her den. Her pistol wouldn’t be enough to stop a mad bear. She wasn’t even sure it would be enough to stop the Pinkertons now. Irish reached into her pocket. She had maybe 20 bullets left, including the few rounds still in her gun. She made sure to load the gun and keep it nearby anyway, just in case.

She kneeled next to Arthur. He was officially unconscious. That last tumble had knocked him out cold. That was probably for the best. The last thing she needed now was Arthur’s screaming bringing the Pinkertons down on them. Irish cut off the cloth surrounding Arthur’s leg. The bullet had gone straight through. Irish let out a sigh of relief. That would make it a little easier, at least. She pulled off his satchel and started sifting through it, looking for something, anything, that could help her treat Arthur. He had a few tonics but no bandages or alcohol. Irish groaned. That was going to make this a lot harder. She looked around the cave as if that would actually help. Well, maybe a little. She found a bunch of cobwebs in the corner. If she didn’t have cloth to stop the bleeding, this apparently worked well and it was all that she had. Irish pressed the webs to Arthur’s leg. She held down as much pressure as she could until blood stopped seeping through. It would have to do until they could get off this damned mountain.

Irish poured a little bit of water over her hands to get the blood off. She’d have to find something to clean the blood and dirt from Arthur’s face. He wasn’t looking too good. Micah had definitely done some damage. She wouldn’t be surprised if his nose was broken. Her heart ached in her chest as she looked at the sorry state her friend was in. At least the bastard was dead. He was finally dead. It was too late for it to change anything, but it made her feel better to know he was gone.

Irish looked at her battered button down. It was too dirty to be used for bandages, but… but her chemise would be in much better shape. She looked at Arthur to make sure he was still passed out before peeling off her shirt and the undergarment. She quickly put the shirt back on, making quick work of the buttons. The chemise wasn’t in great condition, but if she was able to get down to the river and back, she could at least make it a little bit cleaner and use it to help clean Arthur up. 

She sat by the lichen curtain for what felt like an eternity before she determined it was safe enough to venture out. Still, she refused to let her guard down even for a second. Irish slowly made her way down. She was careful not to let a single rock fall down out of place. Barely a sound left her as she waited to hear the shouts of the Pinkertons coming down on her. She had heard them milling about when she first got to the cave and she was still scared that they would find Arthur defenseless. But she didn’t have any other choice; not if she wanted him to live and keep all of his limbs.

It took too long to reach the little stream. It took too long to rinse the dirt and sweat from the chemise and it took too long to get back. Every moment that she spent out in the open was a moment when someone could be watching. A moment when she could be leading the Pinkertons right to her. Irish hoped that they were focusing their attention on Dutch. He was the one that Milton had been obsessed with. Maybe, maybe they could forget about Arthur Morgan and Irish Hammond for a couple of days. She knew it was too much to ask for after everything they had done. Every bad thing that they had done in the name of Dutch van der Linde. They truly had been fools to listen to his speeches for so long.

Irish looked around like a wild animal before climbing through the lichen. Arthur was right where she had left him. At least he was still breathing. For now. Blood had started to come through the temporary cobweb bandage. It was worth the risk to clean the chemise, then, at least. She pulled out her knife and started to cut the fabric into thin sheets. She had made sure to fill two canteens with water. One for drinking, the other to finish her work cleaning Arthur up. She found his coffee tin and filled it with the water. She couldn’t risk starting a fire right now. It was still too soon.

She dipped the strips into water and got to work dressing the bullet wound on his leg. She was careful not to cut off circulation. It wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to deal with something like this. Arthur was lucky that the bullet had missed major arteries. Otherwise, she’d be dealing with a corpse right now. The thought made Irish shudder. She shook her head and dipped another strip of fabric into water. Gently, she started to clean all of the dried blood and dirt from his face. She emptied the coffee mug at least three times before she got all of it. He looked better. Kind of. More like himself. He’d gotten into worse scraps in bar fights before. Irish started to unbutton his shirt and union suit. Micah had probably given him a few good kicks to the ribs.

Sure enough, there were blossoming bruises of purple and blue forming on his chest and sides. There wasn’t much that Irish could do for bruises. She leaned her head against his chest and listened to his breathing. Considering all he had been through in the last several hours, it was steady. Irish let out a breath that she hadn’t known she’d been holding. She could get him through this. She had to get him through this. The thought of being alone right now… it was more than she could bear. She had lost so much of her family already. How could she bear to lose one more member?

She quickly buttoned his clothes up again. Irish took her jacket and balled it up. She placed it under Arthur’s head. She hoped it would give him some relief from the stone floor. As for Irish, she stayed by the entrance with her gun drawn, listening and waiting for any signs of Pinkertons coming by. Even the sound of an animal passing by made her nervous. She had never been this jumpy in the past. Perhaps that was because then, she knew that she had someone watching her back. While Arthur was passed out, it was just her. No one would be there to save her if she was caught. Another thought that made a shiver go down her spine. No back up. No one to rely on but herself. Right then. Back to the way it used to be. She made do in the past. She’d do it again.

For two nights, Irish refused to sleep, even for a second. She was too scared that the second she let herself be vulnerable would be when the Pinkertons would lead a raid against this little hideaway. Arthur occasionally spoke in his sleep. Once or twice she caught him with his eyes open but it was only for a moment or two. Then, he’d be back out. On the third night, Irish was finally ready to let herself rest. She was getting sluggish. That would be worse than anything if the Pinkertons did manage to find them, somehow. So, she laid her head down next to Arthur, hoping his easy breathing would lull her to sleep.

The first thing she noticed was how warm he was. She wasn’t that close to him but she could feel the heat radiating off of his body. She sat up and pressed a hand to his forehead. He was burning up. Irish cursed under her breath for the umpteenth time. Without money, she couldn’t just go out and buy something to help him. Irish had to hope that Arthur had something. With that frail hope, she started scouring his satchel for anything that could help. There wasn’t anything she recognised and too many labels had been scratched off the vials. Without Arthur awake to identify them, she could accidentally kill him. She opened his journal. It was an invasion of his privacy, but she had to hope that he’d written something about it in there. She scanned the pages quickly but there was nothing about what those vials held. Irish tossed the journal to the ground. More than anything she wanted to scream. 

She was glad she didn’t. If she had, she would have missed the sound of something metallic falling from the journal. In the darkness she could just barely make out the shape of a key. Irish held it up. She knew this key. She had seen it so many times in Dutch’s tent when she was barely paying attention. It was the key to the chest where the gang kept all of their money. Abigail said that Dutch had been keeping it under a wagon in the tunnels. If she could get there and to a town, she might be able to stop the fever before it turned into something she couldn’t take care of on her own. It was just her. She was quick enough to get in and out undetected, right? Irish looked back at Arthur. She didn’t have any other choice. 

It was decided. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, whispering a good luck charm her mother used on her when she had nightmares as a child, before leaving the cave. It was hard to ignore the unnatural heat that emanated off of his body. She had emptied Arthur’s satchel, lining up the supplies neatly. It would be the only thing she had to carry as much money as she could out of that chest, provided Dutch hadn’t already sent Bill and Javier back for it. If she was faced with them, would she have the strength to put a bullet in them? She really hoped so.

_I should’ve put one in Dutch when I had the chance,_ she thought to herself.

Instantly, she was repulsed and relieved and mad and confused. She had looked up to Dutch for so long. It still felt wrong to think ill of him, even after everything that had happened. After everything he had done. After getting Hosea killed. Irish took a moment to close her eyes and calm down. She needed to be calm when she got to those tunnels. She’d burned down the ladder. She could jump down that way, but how was she going to get back out? It was too high for her to jump out. She could maybe pull boxes over and up the first ladder. If it wasn’t affixed to the wall, she would just take that ladder. Whatever happened, she had to make sure that she got out of there alive and with something to show for it if she wanted Arthur to survive the next week.

Irish reached the hidden entrance by the time that dawn broke. There had been one Pinkerton patrol that passed but they had seemed completely uninterested in what they were doing. None of them believed that anyone had been stupid enough to stay on the mountain, much less come back for nothing. She could use that to her advantage. In and out before anyone noticed. That was her goal. Irish tightened the strap of the satchel before jumping down into the caves once more. 

She landed with a soft groan. She let her hands hit the sandy ground. Irish stayed still for a moment. The air still smelled like kerosene. When she determined she couldn’t hear anything in the tunnels, she started moving. She kept a painstakingly slow pace as she walked. She knew that even if they weren’t in the caves, one sound would echo too far out. She’d be discovered in an instant. Irish made her way to the wagon. Sure enough, the chest was hidden there, barely covered by a blanket. Instinctively Irish looked around the cave before pulling the key from the satchel. She opened the chest and was taken aback by just how much was actually there. Irish started loading the satchel with as much cash as she could. She made sure to avoid coins or gold bars. She didn’t need the noise or the weight. It didn’t matter if it was bills or bonds, she needed it to get Arthur his medicine.

Irish headed to the mouth of the cave, hiding behind what was left of Dutch’s tent. There weren’t any Pinkertons around the camp. She was certain that would change soon. She moved quickly, silently, towards the tree line. Her foot hit something, sending it flying a few feet across the ground. She stopped. Irish listened for any other disturbance before moving forward. She looked down at what she had kicked. It was an old copy of _Antigone_ that Hosea had given to her a decade ago. With a twinge in her chest, she stuffed it into the satchel and kept moving. She had to keep moving if she wanted to get to Valentine. Maybe she’d find some unsuspecting fool on the road and she could steal his horse. She didn’t like the thought of leaving someone stuck but she couldn’t see any other options. 

Arthur needed her.

There was a flash of white and a loud whinny. Irish pulled her gun. It seemed she was going to get that chance to shoot Dutch, after all. She made her way towards the horse quietly. But there was no one there. It was just the Count, still saddled up, wandering aimlessly through the forest. His bright blue eyes met Irish’s green ones and he stopped. He recognised her. Irish put away her gun and held up her hands. It was like she was surrendering to the horse. He held his head back away from her, huffing.

“Easy there, boy, easy,” Irish said, her voice barely above a whisper as she walked forward. “Easy now,”

The Count didn’t relax as she got nearer, but he didn’t run away, either. Irish offered a few more words of encouragement before she dared pat the proud beast’s neck.

“That’s it, boy. Good boy. He’s left you, too, hasn’t he?”

The Count huffed in response, leaning into her touch.

“Yeah, he seems to do that a lot these days. How about you and I go together? How’s that?”

Irish started to go to the left of the Count. His back legs hit the ground heavily as he kicked. She held up her hand again. Irish reached into her pocket and pulled out a couple of sugarcubes. She always kept them for the horses. She had never taken them out. She held the sugar out to the Count. He took them gladly, munching quietly while she got onto his back. Instantly, the horse started to try and buck her off. Irish held on tightly to the reins. She refused to give up easily. A few moments passed of this. It was enough to make her feel dizzy by the time the Count finally calmed down. She was breathing heavily and her hands hurt from gripping the reins so tightly. Irish patted the horse’s neck.

“There, now that wasn’t so bad, was it? C’mon, we gotta get to Valentine. Yah!”

She dug her heels into the Count’s side, spurring him into action. She knew the way from here. If she stayed to the backroads, it would take half a day to get there. She looked up at the sun. It was still hanging low in the east. It was early morning. If she was lucky, she’d get back to Arthur as dusk rolled around. She prayed to whatever was out there that he’d survive that long. She needed him to survive that long.

The Count slowly grew more relaxed as they rode together. Maybe he was starting to respect her. Or maybe he’d just resigned himself to his fate. Either way, she had a fast, strong horse and that was all that mattered right now.

Valentine came into view as the sun reached its peak. Irish urged the Count to move faster. She was desperate to get back to the cave. If Arthur woke up while she was gone, he’d probably do something stupid like try to walk out of there. On his leg, he’d just fall down and hurt himself even worse. In his condition, she doubted he’d even feel a thing until it was too late. The thought of him dying alone in that cave hurt her more than the thought of him dying. She didn’t stop pushing the Count forward until she could see the hitching post in front of the doctor’s office. 

She couldn’t help but burst through the doors. She was certain that she looked wild when she came in. Her hat was barely containing untamed, unruly hair as she walked to the counter. The doctor eyed her up and down. Clearly, he thought she didn’t have money.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” he asked.

“I… I need medicine. My, erm, my _husband’s_ gotta fever in a bad way. He was out huntin’ with some folk and this wolf bit him in the leg. I’ve done what I can, but we ain’t got clean bandages or nothin’ to help with the fever. I’m just, I’m scared. I gotta get back to him quick as I can otherwise, I… I don’t know what’ll happen to him,” Irish stammered out.

The doctor looked her up and down again. “You got money?” She reached into her satchel and pulled out a stack of bills. “All right then, I’ll get you set up. Wait here for a moment.”

So she waited. She waited impatiently for the man to come back with the things that she needed. It wasn’t even an act, the things she had said. As she spoke to the first person she’d seen in three days that was coherent, all of her worry had come spilling out in her voice. The doctor came back with a bag. He carefully laid out all of the items.

“Clean bandages, enough for a couple of days. Sutures and a needle for those bites. Have him drink this to help with the fever. If you find elderberries, use the blossoms to brew some tea for him. As for his leg, this’ll help with the pain. And alcohol to keep it clean.” The doctor carefully packed everything back up.

Irish took the bag like it was a lifeline, carefully holding on to it before placing the entire stack of bills on the counter. She didn’t care if it was just enough or too much. She had to get back to Arthur with all of this. She placed the bag in the Count’s saddle bag. Before she raced off, she had the sense to stop by the general store, too. She bought blankets and food, along with a couple bottles of whiskey and a new pair of jeans for Arthur. She carefully stored everything on the Count. The horse barely moved as she did. It was the first time he was reluctant to do something she wanted. Irish gently patted the Count’s neck, thanking him before getting back in the saddle and riding off again. Back towards the mountain. Back towards Arthur. 

Back towards the Pinkertons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really wasn't expecting this chapter to be as long as it ended up, but if you're not complaining, neither am I! Leave a comment if you enjoyed! I love hearing from you guys.


	3. Devil Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! Seriously, every time I log on and see an inbox notification it brings a smile to my face!

Irish raced back towards the mountain. Even though she knew the danger, she wasn’t nearly as cautious as she should have been. She had been gone for too long already. She didn’t want to waste another second. Not when she had everything that she needed to keep Arthur alive. She dismounted the Count several meters away from the cave’s entrance, leaving the horse loosely hitched just inside the treeline. There was no doubt in her mind that he would leave as soon as he got free. She didn’t mind so much now. She’d gotten what she needed. Irish gently took off the Count’s saddle and grabbed the blanket. The nights were just going to get colder. They were going to need any kind of warmth that they could get.

“Thank you,” she whispered, resting her forehead against the Count’s strong side. The horse shuddered slightly as she moved away again.

Irish made the climb back up the mountain. Her head was on a constant swivel as she looked for patrols and listened for the slightest disturbance of the loose rock. Anything that could mean she was being followed. This was the most cautious she had been since she was just a teenager fending for herself. This was the most vulnerable she had felt since she’d joined the gang. Funny how a gang of criminals could have made her feel so safe.

She crawled back through the lichen and found Arthur laying right where she had left him. None of the supplies had been disturbed. Irish started biting the inside of her cheek. That wasn’t a good sign. She was easily gone for an entire day, yet he hadn’t moved at all. She walked over to him and placed her hand on his forehead again. If it was possible, he felt even warmer. She dipped one of the few remaining pieces of scrap cloth into the cold water, placing it on his forehead. He groaned softly. That was a good sign. He was still semi-aware of his surroundings. Irish did whatever she could to keep her thoughts off of Arthur coming back from the O’Driscoll camp, bloody and weak. The shot to his shoulder had been much worse, sure, but he’d also had much more capable people than her taking care of him. What if she wasn’t able to save him? What if he died in this cave? 

It was a thought she had to keep at bay while she removed the torn up chemise bandages from his leg. The sight of it made her wince. It didn’t look great. At least it wasn’t infected. Irish grabbed one of the bottles of whiskey. She took out the cork with her teeth, spitting it somewhere in the cave. She took a quick swig before pouring some of the alcohol on his leg. 

Arthur’s eyes shot open. Immediately, Irish clamped a hand over his mouth. It didn’t do nearly enough to hide his exclamation of pain. He looked at her with a wild look in his eyes. She pressed a finger to her lips and pointed to the entrance of the cave. They weren’t safe yet. Arthur nodded and laid back down. He was awake. Irish kept her sigh of relief inside as she went back to work on his leg.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Morgan,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Where are we?” Arthur asked, grimacing as he moved to get up again.

Irish pushed him back down gently. “A cave on Mount Hagen.”

“We’re still on the mountain?”

“I couldn’t get you much further than that. I was lucky to find this place.”

“How long’s it been?”

“Three days, I think. Here, drink this.” Irish pushed the vial the doctor had given her into his hands. “You’ve got quite the fever. Drink.”

Arthur complied. Irish set the needle and sutures out and looked at his leg. She had done this a couple of times on herself. It had to be easier on someone else, right? Arthur looked at her with a nervous expression. She sent back a confident smile, threading the needle. Irish kept one arm firm against his leg while she got to work. He did his best to be silent, but the cave amplified sounds. She could hear every groan and whimper that came from this mountain of a man. It made her smile a bit. He was still human. It also meant that he had feeling in his leg. 

“Roll over. Gotta get the other side, too,”

Arthur did as she asked. “Hand me that whiskey, would ya?”

She did as he asked. “Try not to drink yourself into a stupor. Need you somewhat lucid.”

“Whatever you say.”

Irish gave the other side of Arthur’s leg the same treatment. When she was done, she had him on his back again. She started wrapping his leg in the clean bandages. Finally, finally it was properly taken care of. At least, as proper as it could be from someone with very little experience in this area. Irish sat back, leaning on her hands and looking up at the ceiling of the cave. She didn’t feel safe. She wasn’t sure that she’d ever feel safe again. But she wasn’t alone, either. Irish glanced at Arthur. He was sitting up against one of the larger rocks, taking inventory of all his limbs. He was moving. Irish stood and went to the saddlebags. She pulled out a can of beans and tossed them to Arthur.

“Eat. You gotta keep your strength up,” she said.

“What about you?”

She held up a can of peaches. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m not the one who got the shit beaten out of them.”

They sat in silence while they ate. It wasn’t the same comradery that it had always been in camp, where silence meant safety. No, this was the silence of two people that knew their time was even more limited than usual. The kind of silence that came with fear. Neither of them would admit to the other that they were scared, but it hung in the air nonetheless. Irish set her can aside and pulled her knees to her chest. 

“Beats stew,” Arthur joked.

“Well, Pearson’s stew, at least,” Irish chuckled. “I mean, how many times can you make the same damn thing? No matter what we brought him, it always tasted the same.”

“Y’know what he’d say. Once it’s in the pot, it’s beef.”

They both laughed. For a moment, they forgot about any danger their laughter could bring because who cared? Arthur held his side and winced. Irish moved towards him, taking his temperature again. It wasn’t better, but it wasn’t any worse, either. She looked into his can of beans. He’d barely touched them. She gives him a look. Eat, it says. Arthur sheepishly takes another mouthful. Irish leaned back again, watching and making sure that he finished the whole damn can. He hadn’t eaten anything in three days. That was probably why his fever had gotten so bad. She didn’t know for sure. All of this was new to her. It had always been Susan or Reverend Swanson or Abigail that took care of the sick people in camp. Only, they weren’t in camp, anymore. They would never be in that camp again, with it’s easy atmosphere and friendly faces. Even if she got in a fight with someone, it would be resolved simply enough and they’d be back to being friends in no time. How could all of that just be gone?

“How’d you find me, anyhow?” Arthur asked, taking another bite.

“I left John to head back. I saw Micah headin’ towards where I last saw you and just… saw red, I suppose. Couldn’t let the bastard get away with all of that shit, y’know? When I finally found you two, you were already in a bad way. Micah was aimin’ for ya so I shot first. He fell over the ridge and I carried you as far as I could before findin’ this place.” Irish rolled her shoulders. “I couldn’t watch another person I loved die.”

Her last words were just barely above a whisper. Arthur nodded. Irish looked at the ground. She moved the sand with her finger, drawing simple designs.

How much longer could they hide here? It was so close to where the final moment of the Van der Linde gang took place. Surely, Pinkertons would find this place eventually. They wouldn’t leave it alone. Irish remembered Arthur talking about returning to Shady Belle. That had been over a week since the gang’s disappearance. How long would it be before they starved? Before they were found? Before one or both of them died? She couldn’t stop the steady stream of thoughts invading her mind. 

They couldn’t leave until Arthur had his strength back, that much was certain. There was no gurantee that the Count had stayed put. If he hadn’t, Irish wasn’t sure that her whistle would bring the horse back to her. Even if Arthur’s bruises healed quickly, he wouldn’t be able to walk quickly for at least a month. They’d need a horse to get away fast enough. How long were they going to be trapped like sitting ducks?

Irish stood up. “Get some rest, Arthur. I’m gonna keep watch. And drink some water, too.”

She didn’t wait for his response before stepping just outside the lichen curtain. She took a few steps away from the cave. Her pistol felt heavier in her hand. She looked at the inlaid metal. It didn’t look familiar anymore. It was like this gun belonged to someone else and she was just an imposter. Who was she now? Still an outlaw, sure, but that was a title she adopted because of Dutch.

Oh, what a fool she had been to waste all of that time on him. 12 years. 12 years she had trusted, loved, and helped that man and for what? All of that was over. If she was feeling this bad over 12 years, she could only imagine how Arthur felt. He was only four years older than her, but he had been with Dutch for 20 years. That was most of his life. He had done bad things in the name of Dutch van der Linde. Things that already ate at him inside, even if they were for the right reasons. She let out a heavy sigh. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she was going to survive. She was going to make sure Arthur did, too. She owed him that much, at least. 

She’d survived Guarma, right? This was going to be a piece of cake compared to that. She shuddered at the memory. The heat bearing down on her back. The fear that she’d never get to return home. She knew that she’d never get to see Hosea again. That hurt worse than any bullet wound she’d gotten over the years.

Irish reached into her pocket and pulled out the old copy of _Antigone_. The pages were worn. Some were tearing away from the binding, but it was the first gift Hosea had ever given her. She’d been able to read when the gang picked her up, but it wasn’t much more than bounty posters. It was Hosea who actually made her read books. Once she started, she couldn’t stop. She was on a constant search for something interesting to read. _Antigone_ was the first play she’d read and she fell in love. Hosea had made a point to get this for her the next time they’d stopped. Made a big show of it, too. Him and Bessie. They always treated her like she was their own child and they would never know just how much she appreciated that.

Irish looked up at the night sky and the slowly emerging stars. She hoped that they were looking at her with pride now. She hoped that she was doing the right thing. Most of all, she hoped that she wouldn’t have to face her friends again. Even after everything that they had been through together, Irish knew that a meeting like that would end with one of them shot and dying in the dirt. 

Well, the stars were still the same. It was the only thing that she could count on, really, that the stars would always be the same stars. Sure, some things changed with the seasons, but she could always find the stars. For now, she occupied her mind with finding the North Star. It stood out amongst the rest of the sky. A shining beacon to bring her home. Back to safety. All at once, she’s a young woman again, just barely 19, sitting next to Dutch by a dying bonfire.

_“You can always find your way home with the North Star,” he had said, “because we’ll always be waitin’ for you to come back.”_

_“Always? That’s a pretty steep promise, Mr. Van der Linde,” Irish quipped. She could just barely contain the smile threatening to cross her lips._

_He put an arm over her shoulders. “How many times I gotta tell you to call me Dutch? We’re family, now. You, me, Hosea. I s’pose those boys over there, too.” Dutch gestured to John and the others. Arthur had Bill in a headlock and Bill was struggling to get out. It was futile. Irish finally let out a small laugh. “Atta girl.”_

Irish wiped her eyes. This wasn’t the end, she told herself. It was just the beginning. A new adventure. Another chapter in her life and this time, she wasn’t starting it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always.


	4. Good Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you call a fish with no eyes?
> 
> fsh

After two weeks of nonstop treatment, Arthur’s face was finally starting to look better. Irish hadn’t risked another trip into town. Now that Arthur was up and moving, she wanted to be with him. The last thing that they needed was for him to think he was doing better than he actually was while she was gone and hurting himself again. Or worse, getting caught by the Pinkertons. She didn’t even want to imagine the torture they would go through before they were killed. It was sure to be a slow and painful death, especially after what Abigail had done to Milton. Arthur described it once, the gruesome reality of having someone’s brains sprayed directly onto his face. Irish had, of course, seen a bullet go through more than a couple of skulls, usually from her own gun, but she had always been a safe distance away and never really had to face the aftermath. She figured that whoever had found Milton hadn’t seen it up close or at all. No, there would be no mercy for them now.

Irish forced Arthur to his feet. He didn’t protest verbally, but she could see the complaint in his eyes. Even after years of going through this kind of shit, he was still reluctant. Imagine that. He was always so proactive on jobs and helping out others, it was strange to see him so unwilling to do something to help himself. Irish had no qualms about dragging him out of the cave if it was necessary. Thankfully, Arthur would listen to her. Usually. Even now, as he leaned heavily against her, he was still walking forward.

“That’s it. Just a couple more feet,” Irish promised.

“You said that already,” Arthur huffed.

“Gotta keep you on your toes. Literally. C’mon, what happened to Arthur Morgan? The guy who could intimidate the world’s strongest man? The guy who, if your ridiculous campfire stories are to be trusted, fought a lion?”

Arthur groaned. “Don’t remind me. That damned Margaret or whatever his name was nearly got me killed. Did get a lot of folk killed down at Emerald Ranch, all to give me some piece a junk for my troubles.”

“Sure he did.”

Irish chuckled softly. A part of her didn’t believe anything like that could ever have happened, but they were far enough east around that time that she would have believed anything was possible. She looked up at him. He was staring at the ground with an intense expression. All of his energy was focused on getting his leg back up to full strength. He’d been sitting around in that cave for too long. When he stood up for the first time, he immediately fell back on his ass, clutching his wounded leg and grimacing. Irish had gone out into the woods to take care of the Count after that. She found that the white steed had taken a liking to her. If he was close enough, he’d come to the sound of her voice. She made sure that that pretty white coat of his stayed white and lustrous. While Irish was out there in the woods, she fashioned a fallen branch into a kind of staff for Arthur to make walking a little easier. Now, he was insisting that he didn’t need it. Irish had some requests of her own, such as taking him down the mountain side and back. Not all the way, of course. Just a few meters away from the cave. It was still well within view. 

The real challenge was getting the food she cooked to stay in their stomachs. The food she’d bought at the general store had run out in a week. Since Arthur was awake, she felt comfortable going out to do some hunting. However, if she tried to do anything more than roast whatever game she’d managed to catch, it never turned out right. It wasn’t like they had a plethora of ingredients, but it wasn’t pleasant. It was, somewhat, better than having nothing. Hopefully, they’d be off this mountain soon.

“Hey, y’know what I could really go for?” Arthur asked.

“What?”

“Some fish. Dutch’s old rod was in with the Count’s things and I’ve always got mine handy. How’s about we head down to a nice place and try to catch somethin’?”

“Arthur Morgan, suggestin’ that we go fishin’? Now I’ve seen everything.” Irish didn’t bother trying to hide her grin. “Stay here, I’ll grab the rods.”

She quickly ran back to the cave, crawling inside and grabbing what they needed. She took a few scraps of bread and cheese, too, in case they needed some extra bait. Arthur was waiting somewhat eagerly for her to come back. She helped him move down the more tricky parts of the mountain. There were more than a few places that could get a little steep and slick if one step was wrong. They were following the small stream she’d discovered hidden in one of the many crevices. It was about 20 minutes of walking (mostly because they had to stop every now and then to let Arthur rest) to get to the spring the stream fed into.

Irish’s breath was taken away as she looked at the sight before her. Crystal blue water stretched out just far enough. Vegetation was spread all around them. Some of the plants she knew, but most she couldn’t name off the top of her head. The water reflected the beauty around them. It was somewhat obscured, but that only added to it. The stream fed into the spring like a small waterfall, ensuring that the area would never be completely silent. Not even the lowest part of the rocks reached the surface, standing several inches above the water. A perfect fishing spot. 

“Wow,” Irish spoke quietly.

“Wow indeed,” Arthur agreed.

Without another word, they both put together their rods, sharing the bait. Irish moved a few paces away to keep their lines from getting crossed. They sat in silence for a long time. It was comfortable. Perfect, unlike that first night Arthur had been awake. In a place like this, it was easy to forget fear and just… live. Really live and be human for a few fleeting moments. That was all that Irish really wanted now. Precious moments, surrounded by beauty.

Arthur stopped fidgeting and looked up. Irish glanced back at him. He was staring at the sky in wonder. His mouth was slightly agape and blue-green eyes were wide. She turned to see what he was looking at. 

The sun was slowly setting in the west. From where they were, they actually had a pretty good view of it. The fading sun cast a glow of orange over the tops of the trees. The usual blue of the sky was melting into the oranges and yellows. The clouds were a light pinkish colour, lazily floating towards nothing. Purples meshed with reds, light and dark came together and it was only for a few moments. Before anything else could be seen or said, the moment was gone. 

Arthur closed his mouth. There was a soft smile traced across his lips still. Irish stared at the retreating sun for a moment. It really was something else. No matter how many sunsets she saw, she would never get used to the sight of them. Each one of them was so different from the last, so unique.

“I missed the sun,” Arthur said.

“We can see it from the cave,” Irish shrugged.

“Yeah, but you know that ain’t the same as standing in a place like this and watchin’ it. Don’t try and fool yourself now.”

“Nah, I s’pose not. We better be headin’ back now. I don’t think any of our fish friends are interested in cheese.”

“Hold on! I’ve got somethin’!”

Arthur pulled back on the rod, reeling in whatever it was he had quickly. Irish watched in anticipation. Neither of them were expecting for his leg to give out at that exact moment.

Arthur was pulled into the water. He landed with a loud splash that sent water up over the rocks and onto Irish’s boots. Dread overtook her as she looked into the water. Arthur sputtered when he came back to the surface, wiping water from his eyes. He gave his head a good shake and held up the fishing rod.

“Had to cut the line to keep the rod,” he said.

“You okay?” she asked him. Irish hoped that her voice didn’t sound as worried as she felt.

“Yeah, I’m good. C’mon, help me outta here.”

Irish made her way down the rocks closer to the water’s edge. She found the spot closest to the water and held out her hand. Arthur swam over to her. His fingers wrapped around her wrist. She started to pull back but was met with a much greater force pulling her in. She barely had time to brace herself before she was completely submerged. It took her a moment to get her bearings under water. Her eyes stung but she needed to look around. She found the surface and swam quickly. As soon as she was up, she took a deep gulp of fresh air into her lungs. Arthur was laughing like a madman. It wasn’t often that Irish heard Arthur laugh, but it did nothing to make her less angry at him. She sent a wave of water his way.

“You dumbass! Now we’re both soaked!” Irish complained.

“Ah, you’re enjoyin’ yourself, don’t lie.” Arthur was still smiling and trying not to laugh. “You need to do that, y’know. Take a little time for yourself. God knows you’ve spent enough of it on an old fool like me.”

“Fool? Yes. Old? No. If you’re old, then so am I and I ain’t ready for that conversation yet. And as for lookin’ out for you? If I didn’t do it, who would?” Arthur opened his mouth to say something back. “All right, will this shut you up? I’ll promise to watch you if you promise to watch me. We’ll take care of each other. Deal?”

She held out her hand expectantly. Arthur didn’t hesitate to take it in his own. His palms were rough and calloused. She was sure that hers felt much the same to him. They shook on it, making it official. Irish pulled her hand away. As Arthur turned around, she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed down with all of her strength. He was completely submerged. She let out a laugh of her own until she felt his hand on her ankle. Just like that, she was back underwater. She could just barely make out Arthur swimming back for air. She did the same. Irish pushed her hair out of her face. It was the first time that she had smiled in what felt like months.

She laid on her back and let herself float. She looked up at the night sky. If Arthur was feeling this good, then their days on the mountain were numbered. If it was just the two of them, they could get off with relative ease. They could even make it back west, if they tried. Find someplace far away from the trains and settle there. Together. Make some kind of a life for whatever time that they had left. Irish wasn’t going back to being an outlaw. She knew that she could, if she really wanted to. She had been doing well for herself before Arthur found her. Somehow, it felt wrong to think about going back to that life without the rest of the gang by her side.

Arthur entwined his fingers with hers. She looked over at him. He was staring at the sky, too. As she looked back up, she wondered what was causing that pensive look on his face. Was he worried about the same things she was? All she knew was that he was there and present. With his hand in her own, she could forget about the rest of the world. It was just the two of them in this moment, in their little secret spring. They were unburdened by the need for conversation. The only sound was the soft trickle of the stream.

Arthur let her go and swam to the edge. He pulled himself out of the water. Arthur shook his body like he was a dog, running his fingers through his hair. He leaned down and held out a hand to Irish. She swam over tentatively and took it. She still didn’t entirely trust Arthur now, not after that stunt. But there were no tricks up Arthur’s sleeve, not this time. He pulled her up with little difficulty, considering his leg wound. 

She stood next to him for a moment, inches away from being flush against his chest. They had been forced to be close together over the past couple of weeks, sure, but this felt different somehow. Irish took a step back to get rid of the feeling. She didn’t like it and she didn’t like who was causing it.

On the sodden trek back to their temporary home, Irish kept her arms tight around herself. By the time they got back to the cave, she was shivering. She made her way into the cave and started gathering up the blankets.

“Make sure to get out of those wet clothes, Arthur. The last thing we need is one of us catchin’ pneumonia,” Irish warned.

He nodded, facing towards the back of the cave as he started to unbutton his shirt. Irish stared at his back for longer than she should have. When she turned to face her own wall, her cheeks were burning. Quickly, she took off her own clothes and wrapped one of the blankets around herself tightly. She set the clothes close to the entrance. Irish sat against one of the walls and leaned her head back. She let herself dream of the virgin west for a short while before taking watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned this was a slow burn and I MEANT IT


	5. The Cave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every chapter title is a song title! If you hadn't noticed, lol. It's mostly just whatever song I associate with each chapter or what song I listened to the most while writing. Which is a new thing for me, naming chapters. Anyway, enjoy!

Irish sat quietly outside of the cave, cleaning her pistols and making sure they’re fully loaded. It would be better if she had a repeater or a rifle, but all of those weapons had been on Arthur’s horse. No, all they had in terms of defense were four pistols and a handful of bullets between them. Irish chastised herself for not buying more when she went to Valentine. She reached in her pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. She took a deep breath of the smoke and watched as it spun and twirled in the air, floating away from her. Irish looked up at the sun. It had to be just after noon, now. There had been no sign of the Pinkertons today. Their patrols were getting farther and farther away. Irish wondered if they thought she and Arthur were dead. She stifled a yawn and headed back inside.

Arthur was laying on the makeshift bed. One of his arms was draped over his chest, the other curled next to his side and his hand clenched in a tight fist. His jaw was tense. From how quickly his chest was moving, Irish knew that he was having another nightmare. She watched sympathetically. That was the only good thing about being unconscious those first few days, she supposed. He hadn’t had any nightmares. She wasn’t even sure that he had had any dream. Soft words escaped his lips now. She could barely make out Hosea’s name. Arthur repeated it like a mantra in his sleep. His voice slowly started to get louder and more desperate, like he was yelling his name wherever he was.

Suddenly, the hand across his chest shot back to his side where his holster usually was. Arthur sat up quickly. His eyes were wild, like he was searching for an enemy that wasn’t there. Irish moved over to him silently. She held onto him tightly, gently brushing his hair out his face until he calmed down. His arms wrapped around her. She could feel his whole body trembling. It was a rare moment of intimacy.

“You were reliving Saint Denis, weren’t you?” Irish asked. Arthur nodded. She placed a hand on either side of his face, making his blue eyes stare deep into her own green ones. “It’s gonna be okay. You know that, right?” Another nod. “Good. I’m gonna get you outta here. Promise.”

And she meant it. Every word. She wanted to take Arthur to a place where the nightmares didn’t exist. She hated to see him like that, even if just for the briefest of moments. It didn’t seem fair that a man who spent so much of his waking hours in this hell had to go through it all again when he slept. If her words were enough to take away all of his worries, she wasn’t sure that she’d ever stop speaking. Those were the things that her promise held. It was a hefty weight, for sure, but it was something that she felt had to be said. Something that had to be known, even if it was just a small moment in a damp, dark cave where the world couldn’t reach them. Irish brushed a thumb across his cheek. He had a full grown beard at this point. He closed his eyes again, leaning into her touch. They stayed there for just long enough.

Irish moved to his leg and looked at the bandages. He hadn’t bled through them. That was a good sign. She carefully cut them off and looked at the wound itself. The scar wasn’t going to be pretty, but it wasn’t exactly like people would be seeing it anyway. It was too high up on his thigh. She felt a little pride at her work. It had saved his life, after all. With a devious smirk, she knew that was information that she would hold over Arthur Morgan’s head for the rest of his life.

Before she could stop it from happening, another yawn escaped her. She clamped a hand over her mouth and hoped that Arthur was sleeping again. No, that was too much to wish for this time. He looked up at her with what could only be described as concern. She started to wave him off but he caught her wrist in his hand. He held her head in place by her chin, looking deep into her eyes.

“Have you slept for more than an hour in the last week?” He asked.

“I’m fine, Arthur. Someone’s gotta keep watch.” Irish pushed him away.

“Nah, you ain’t fine, darlin’. You need rest.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Don’t call me darlin’.”

“Which’ll be soon if you don’t take care of yourself. I never took you for an idiot, Hammond.”

“Arthur-”

“We made a deal. You’ll take care of me, I’ll take care of you. You’ve done more than enough for me. Sure as hell more than I can ever pay you back for. Leave me with the pistols. I’ll even stay in the cave when I take watch, if that’ll make you feel better. A gunshot would wake you, anyhow, so it ain’t like you’re leavin’ me unarmed. I’m not defenseless, y’know.”

“I just-”

“No arguin’. Sleep. You need your strength, too.”

Irish knew that Arthur was right. She could only force herself to stay awake with coffee and cigarettes for so long. If she didn’t let herself rest, what use would she be when they finally left the mountain? It was the thought of leaving Arthur to his own devices that filled her with a sense of dread. The last time that had happened, the last time that he had been alone, he’d nearly died. If Irish had been just a second later… she would have been looking at a body. She knew that going to sleep wasn’t the same as running in opposite directions, but she also knew that waking up meant grogginess. That could give her a moment of hesitation in an attack. She would be disoriented, lost, and unsure. Arthur brushed a piece of her hair behind her ear.

“Sleep. I’ll be right next to ya when you wake up.”

“Do you promise?”

“‘Course. C’mere.”

He leaned on the wall next to her. She stretched out her legs and laid one of the pistols to her left, just within reach if something happened. Arthur put one of the blankets over her. Even with the extra warmth, she could still feel the stone leeching whatever warmth she had left in her body. Arthur’s eyes turned to the entrance of the cave. Irish was certain that she wouldn’t be able to sleep, but it overcame her within seconds of closing her eyes.

* * *

Running.

She’s running. Far, fast, and with no sense of where she’s going.

The forest around her was dark. So dark, that she could just barely make out the path underneath her. It twisted and curved. Every move she made threatened her with the loss of that dirt path. It was her only lifeline. It was her only defense. There are no guns on her back and her gun belt hits her leg. It’s useless and empty, just extra weight as she tries to escape some unseen force.

She just keeps moving. To stop moving is to welcome death, for sure. The forest around her changes so slowly and infrequently that Irish isn’t sure that she’s making any progress at all. Soft moonlight breaks through where it can. It is that soft light that lets her stay on the ever-narrowing path. Irish tries hard to remember why she’s running. Where she was running to or what she was running from. Something, anything, to take her mind off of her burning lungs and aching feet. Her energy was fading fast. She needed to find a place to stop and rest, but that would only bring about a swift end. But she was tired. So, so tired.

* * *

Irish woke up feeling refreshed and exhausted and like she needed a stiff drink more than anything else in the world. Her limbs were stiff and unwilling to move. At some point, her head had fallen to land on Arthur’s shoulder. She moved slightly and caught a glimpse of sunlight peeking through the cave entrance. She turned her head back into Arthur’s shirt. Irish took a deep breath, unwilling or unable to get up just quite yet. He smelled like tobacco mixed with gunsmoke. It was a familiar smell. The smell of home to her. A place that she could be safe. Just for a few more moments. She felt like a kid refusing to get up early in the morning as she stayed there. Unfortunately, she wasn’t a kid and it was time to wake up.

She moved away from Arthur, rubbing her eyes. “Sorry for turnin’ you into a pillow.”

“It weren’t for that long. Coffee?”

He held up the pot and an empty cup. She nodded sleepily. He poured the dark drink and handed it to her. Irish took a sip. Yep. Bitter, lukewarm, and just the right amount of unpleasant. Coffee. She drained her cup within moments. She wished that it was warmer, but they never risked a fire this early in the morning. The smoke could too easily draw the attention of curious, prying eyes.

“I take it there was no trouble?”

“Not a peep. How’re ya feelin’?”

“A little better. I guess.”

She was rewarded with a little chuckle from Arthur. He knew that she had to feel amazing after sleeping for at least 8 hours. It was the first time she had had the chance in months. Irish stood up and started walking around the cave, stretching her tired limbs. As blood started flowing again, Irish could feel herself getting warmer. Good. There was nothing she hated more than the cold. The feeling always lingered for too long, even after you’d found a source of heat.

“Winter’ll be here soon,” Arthur said. “We should clear out in the next couple of days. See if we can’t find a town or cabin to hole up in. Sure as hell need to be off this damn mountain.” Irish shuddered at the memory of Colter. “Plus, I’m sure some sort of animal will fight us for this spot. I’d rather not waste the bullets.”

She knew that he was right. Of course he was right. This cave would only protect them for so long and it seemed like it was finally time for them to move on.

“It’s all a matter of when, then. I still seen a couple of Pinkerton patrols out around the main roads when I go to the Count.” Arthur nodded. “If it’s just you and me, we shouldn’t have too much trouble avoidin’ ‘em. We’ve escaped worse situations than this.” Irish sat back down next to Arthur, fiddling with her pistol. “You seem extra eager to get out of here, Mr. Morgan. Tired of bein’ in such close quarters?”

She can’t see it well in the darkness, but she’s almost certain that a blush spreads across Arthur’s cheeks, slightly hidden by his beard. “It ain’t nothin’ like that. Just tired of sleepin’ on stone.”

Irish can’t help but laugh at that. Arguably, that was the worst part about their secret hiding place. Even with the addition of extra blankets and the few bits of extra clothes that they had, the stone floor was never comfortable. 

“I know exactly how you feel. I miss my old cot, rickety and awful as it was. At least it was off the ground and easy to get out of. I don’t think I’ve ever been this stiff after sleepin’ before,” Irish chuckled.

“Never once envied the boys on bedrolls. ‘Course, with Dutch it was a different story.”

“Always had to have the best. The best clothes, the best horse, the best cigars, and-”

“-the best bed.” They finished together.

The cave filled with the sound of their easy laughter. It didn’t last nearly long enough as they both thought of Dutch. She didn’t want all of those good memories she shared with the gang to be gone. She didn’t want to forget them, but remembering hurt so much. All of that good would forever have a dark cloud over them. There would always be the doubt in her mind that maybe, just maybe, Dutch wasn’t as good as he had made them all believe. Maybe they had all been following a man obsessed with the greed he said would be the death of America. They were all just pawns, all of the gang, pieces to be sacrificed in a game they had no knowledge of. It was enough to make just the thought of the good old days seem like something from one of Jack’s story books.

Irish walked towards the entrance. “All right. Enough doom and gloom. We’ve got enough of that between the two of us without draggin’ it out. I’m gonna check for signs of recent patrols. We’re leavin’ here tonight.”

She didn’t look back to Arthur for confirmation before leaving. As soon as she was outside, out of his sight, she wiped her eyes to get rid of whatever tears were forming there. Irish decided that she would no longer shed tears for _them._ All the people that had mattered, the three people that she had worried about most, were out and safe. That was all she needed. The rest… well, she had made up her mind about them a long time ago, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, yes, friendship. And nothing else. Just friendship. Because they're friends. Realllllllll friendly.


	6. All You Leave Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off on a journey to do stuff. and things.

That day, as the sun started to set and form it’s beautiful sky, they left the cave. Irish lugged the saddle with her. Arthur had all of their supplies under his arm. Irish whistled once for the Count. The steed came running up to her. She cooed as she saw him, a smile spreading across his face that he recognised who was calling for him. Arthur placed the saddle blanket on the horse, eyeing him suspiciously. Irish stepped to the Count’s side and heaved the saddle onto his back. She busied herself with adjusting the straps while Arthur started to put all of the supplies away. Their little cave was empty, all signs that they had ever been there almost completely eradicated. The sooner they were gone, the better.

Finally, they were ready to leave. Arthur stepped to the Count. He stuck his foot in the stirrup and started to put his weight down when the Count kicked back. Arthur tried again. This time, the Count reared up, stamping the ground angrily. He wasn’t having any of it and he certainly wasn’t having Arthur on his back.

Irish stifled a laugh as Arthur was, once again, forced to take several paces back from the Count. The white horse stared at Arthur with what could only be described as contempt. His icy blue eyes were trained on the man. She knew that they had to make their escape off the mountain as quickly as possible, but she so rarely got to see Arthur so exasperated as he was now. Still, the Count refused to let Arthur onto his back. Irish wondered if the horse remembered the first, and last, time that Arthur had managed to get into the saddle. It had been a strong fight on Arthur’s part, but it was ultimately a losing battle that lasted, at best, 5 seconds before Arthur was back in the dirt. It was decided then that the Count would only take Dutch and no one else.

Turned out that wasn’t true, either.

“All right, lemme try somethin’,” Irish said. She approached the Count calmly. After a few pats, he let her climb on without a fight. She reached her hand down to Arthur. “C’mon, cowboy.”

Arthur grumbled something under his breath before taking Irish’s hand. She hoisted him up onto the saddle, too. He pushed himself back to rest more comfortably behind her. The Count snorted and sidestepped a little to regain his balance. Irish gently shushed him, patting his crest with comforting words to boot. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a sugarcube, holding it over to the Count. He happily munched on it, nodding his head in approval. She smiled as she twisted her fingers gently into his mane.

It was a little while longer before Irish finally pushed her heels into the horse’s side, goading him into moving forward. She keeps her grip on the reins tight. Tighter than she needs too, but she needs to do something more with her hands, even if it makes her fingers stiff and her knuckles white. It doesn’t matter what it is, the slightest sound makes her bring the Count to a halt so she can listen closely to the forest. There had been no real sign of Pinkertons in the direction they were going. Irish was still paranoid. One wrong move and both of them would be captured. Tortured. Killed, eventually, but that wouldn’t happen for a long time. Even if they didn’t have any information on Dutch and the others, which they truly didn’t, they would still have to go through all of that. Just like Mac. Just like Sean probably would have done. 

Every time that she stopped, she could feel Arthur’s hands leave her waist and go for his gun. It was slightly comforting to know that he was having the same fears that she was. Irish couldn’t help herself when it came to those fears. No matter how far she ran, she wasn’t sure that the fear would ever really leave her. It was ingrained in her, a fear that Hosea had first presented, Dutch had cultivated, and Arthur had protected her from. She was going to pay him back for that, a thousand times over. She lost count of how many favours she actually owed Arthur after all those years. More than she could possibly make up for in her lifetime.

All in all, it took about four hours to get all the way down the mountain and to the road. There had only been one patrol and the group of men had been so wasted that Arthur and Irish hadn’t had any trouble getting past them. Irish knew that they weren’t going to have much more luck than that. Things rarely went well for them, especially in the last couple of months. They couldn’t rely on something as fickle as luck.

Irish tried to keep them heading northeast. It was the only way she could think of where no one was actively looking for them. She so desperately wanted to head west, but their problems out there were almost as bad as the ones down south. Northeast was the best option, at least for now. She remembered all of the times Hosea had begged Dutch to lie low, stop planning big scores until the heat was off of them so they could actually find that place out west. Some hidden paradise where they could all just be free for a while. Ranchers, or something similar. That was a dream that she still believed in. She had to. Without it, there was nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing. She glanced back at Arthur. His eyes were closed and he was leaning back slightly. Not enough to make her worry, but enough to have some distance between his chest and her back. She believed in him, too. He had this undeniable strength about him, sure, but there was also a kind man who cared for others. It was a side that he kept hidden, buried under layers of sarcasm and self deprecating humour, but it was there. She had seen it in every action that he took. The things he did, good and bad, he did because he thought it was helping get the gang to safety. He thought that it was the right thing to do. Arthur was a good man, whether he saw it or not.

They just kept moving for a long time. Past the mountain, past the woods. Away from Blackwater and Saint Denis and all the chaos that Dutch had created. Irish wondered if Charles was still out there with the Wapiti tribe? Her heart ached the more she thought about them, about Rains Fall and Eagle Flies. It was much more likely that the boy would have survived if Dutch had just left them alone. It hurt even worse to know that the smoke screen he had so desperately wanted hadn’t worked at all. It was never going to work.

Irish had to give Micah a little credit. He had had all of them fooled. She knew that he was more than a little unstable and liked violence, but she’d never thought, even for a second, that he’d be the one to turn traitor. It wasn’t his “undying loyalty” or winning personality that made her think that. It was the fact that she used to think there was at least a little bit of honour among thieves. That was a notion that she was never going to make the mistake of believing again.

* * *

Arthur braced himself for the cold he was going to be walking out into. He took a few more longing seconds by the fire before forcing himself out. Colter wasn’t the best place to hole up, but at least there were four walls to keep out the worst of the wind. Even with that small comfort, he was glad for the wool blankets Ms. Grimshaw had laid out on his cot. Arthur held his coat tight around him as he opened the door to the bitter cold. He walked through the snow, trying to ignore the way the snow stuck to his jeans. He looked across the camp and caught sight of auburn hair against the white of the snow. Irish. He had been wondering where she’d gone to. She was standing guard by a small fire. She looked like she could use a drink, from the way the frost was sticking to her. He walked towards her. She looked up and smiled as he got closer.

“Well, well, he emerges from his den. What brings you from your cave?” She asked. Her voice sounded hoarse, like she hadn’t spoken for weeks. For all he knew, she hadn’t. Irish hadn’t been particularly sociable with him as of late.

“Very funny. Any trouble?” He asked,

“Nah. Ain’t nobody foolish enough to come up here. ‘Cept us, I s’pose.”

Arthur laughed as he took a swig from a bottle of whisky. The liquor burned his throat and warmed his chest. He handed the bottle to Irish. She was quick to take a long drink. Arthur warmed his hands over the fire. He was glad that Dutch hadn’t asked him to keep watch yet. He didn’t want to be out in this any longer than he had to be. Irish glanced over towards the main house, where Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur were staying. Arthur watched her curiously, the way that he eyes flitted around the campsite, like she was trying to make sure that no one was watching them.

“Arthur, d’you… have… I’m worried, Arthur. Scared, even.”

“‘Bout what?”

She looked around again. “Dutch. Gettin’ off this mountain alive.”

“Irish, he’s always gotten us out of stuff like this.”

“But it’s never been this bad, Arthur. Never. And… well, you and Hosea weren’t on that boat. You didn’t see… you don’t know what happened. I’m not sure even I know all of it, but I know this: Dutch killed a girl. An unarmed girl who just happened to be there, and Micah… he was goadin’ him on. It just… weren’t like him, at all. I ain’t never seen Dutch lose his cool like that before.” She leaned forward onto her knees, hiding her face from Arthur. He could still see the shudder run down her spine and he knew it wasn’t from the cold. “I just don’t want anyone else to die, Arthur.”

“I know.” Arthur looked at her. Her emerald green eyes were filled with a worry that he hadn’t seen in her before. She quickly looked down to the ground, her feet shuffling in the snow. “Irish, look, it’ll all be fine. It ain’t like this is the first time a job’s gone wrong. You’ve run a few bad ones yourself. Soon as the thaw hits, we’ll be movin’ outta here and away from them.”

“I could just leave now. Take my horse and some supplies and run. Might even get some land out west, if that’s still the plan.”

“You could never do that. You ain’t Marston.”

She smiled halfheartedly. “I know. You’re right. Just a thought. Sorry, Arthur, for… well, sorry.”

Arthur frowned. This talk… it just wasn’t like Irish. She had always been one of the first people to stand up for Dutch. He wasn’t sure that in the twelve years he had known her, he’d ever once seen her doubt him. He couldn’t lie. It hurt a little to hear her say those things about Dutch. Arthur had known the man for years. Still, he wanted to do what he could to make her feel better, to get rid of her worries if he could. “You don’t gotta-”

“Ah, Mr. Morgan, Ms. Hammond.” The sound of Dutch’s voice calling to them instantly made Irish straighten her back. She looked towards him with no signs she had had any doubts. “The two of you up for takin’ out some O’Driscolls?”

“Always, Dutch. Always. Which way we headin’?”

* * *

The town was called Blue Banks, though Irish wasn’t sure why. She would never fully understand just how these people came up with these names. Deer Creek, Valentine, Armadillo… all of them made no sense. Maybe they weren’t supposed to. It wasn’t what she would have chosen, that much was for sure. Despite its name, it seemed like as good a place as any to rest. The town itself couldn’t have been too much smaller than Valentine. There was a saloon and a general store, at least, and that was all that they really needed to have access to. They didn’t need to stay that long. It would just be nice to stay somewhere that the roof didn’t leak.

Irish found a place to hitch the Count. Arthur was the first to dismount. Irish loosened her grip on the reins, a little more reluctant to put her feet back on the ground. With a heavy sigh, she slid off the saddle and hitched the Count. 

“All right, you head over to the general store. Take this, pick up whatever we might need when we head outta here.” Irish handed Arthur a stack of cash. “I’m gonna get a couple of rooms over at the saloon. At least for one night, we should sleep on mattresses. Maybe it’ll even out after that stone.”

Arthur chuckled. “Agreed. Meet you there?”

“Try and be quick, Arthur. We… probably shouldn't split up for too long.”

Irish turned away and started walking inside. The doors swung shut behind her. Nobody inside paid any attention to her as she walked over to the bar. She sat in one of the stools and leaned down against the smooth surface. The bartender took a moment to get over to her. She didn’t mind. Well, she did, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it without drawing attention to herself and Arthur.

“Howdy. How can I help you, ma’am?” The man asked. He was really only half paying attention to her, keeping one eye on the rowdy patrons.

“Y’all got rooms here?” She asked.

“We got one right now. 3 bucks a night. You interested?”

“I am. Sure it’s the last one you got?” Irish sighed as she set the money on the bar.

“Yep. It’s up on the second floor.” The bartender handed her the key. “Anything else I can help you with?”

“Whisky. Straight.”

The bartender chuckled. He placed the shot glass in front of her and poured. Irish was quick to finish the drink off. Anything to get rid of the last bit of numbness in her limbs. She leaned back against the bar and took in the crowd around her. They were a rowdy bunch, that much was certain, but she doubted that any of them had a clue about who she and Arthur were. Fake names were probably still in order, but she could discuss that with Arthur later, when they were in a more private place. Yes, Blue Banks was going to do just fine for a temporary hideaway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback! Arthur POV! New setting! Wow!


	7. Black Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would it really be fanfiction if I didn't make them share a bed? Like, c'mon.

Irish had a few more drinks before Arthur finally came into the saloon. A few men had come up to her, asking to buy her a drink or just her. It took all of her willpower not to punch them square in the jaw. No, they were actually going to lie low this time. She focused on downing her beer to ignore all the assholes in this town. Arthur looked around the crowd for a bit before he saw Irish sitting there at the bar, nursing her beer. He walked over and sat next to her. She glanced in his direction and slid the bottle towards him. Arthur was quick to take a sip. She stared straight ahead of her. She could just barely make herself out in the mirror. Had she always looked that ragged, or was that just because of the last couple of weeks? She barely recognised herself. Instead of keeping her gaze locked on the dark circles under her own eyes, she turned to Arthur.

“Howdy,” she said. “Get anything good?”

“Yeah. Campin’ stuff, mostly. Some supplies, too, just in case. We can head out whenever you’d like.” 

“Not tonight. We’ve got ourselves a room upstairs. A real bed, Arthur Morgan, a real bed.”

“Good, they had rooms open?”

“Room, singular. We’ll make due.”

Arthur nodded and finished off the bottle. Irish got to her feet. She excused herself and told Arthur which room it was. She went outside and went to the Count. His fur was a little too recognisable for her liking. She didn’t want to leave him out in the open if she could help it. She was fairly certain that she had seen a stable on the ride in. She wanted to take him over there for the night, at least. She knew that anyone who had seen Dutch would know that he rode a pure white steed. It was too risky to leave the Count out anywhere. She was still certain that no one in this town knew them, but if she and Arthur could get this far, then so could anyone else. 

Irish gently led the Count to the stables. Even just walking through with him, she got some strange looks. He was a brilliant horse. Rare, too, because of his striking eyes. Anyone could see that. She was growing to love the horse, but the Count just drew too much attention out in the open. She had to make sure that they weren’t too conspicuous, especially now. The man in charge stared as she led the Count forward, struggling to push the doors open. They pointed her to an open stall, still staring as she went inside. 

Irish heaved the Count’s saddle off, setting it carefully on the stall door. He shook his whole body. Clearly, he was happy to have that weight off of his back. Irish pulled off his bridle. The leather was soft in her hands from years of use. A reminder that it wasn’t hers. She almost tossed it away, but ultimately decided to hang it on the wall instead. She leaned her head against the sturdy stable wall. She was so tired. Tired of it all.

She felt something push against her back. She turned and saw the Count looking at her with his icy gaze. She reached to touch his neck gently. The Count rested his head over her shoulder, patting her back once more with his chin. She laughed a little, wrapping her arms around his neck in response. She ran her fingers through his long white mane. Irish moved away and started looking around the stall for a brush. While she had the time, it would be good to brush the Count a little. There were parts of his white fur that were marred with dirt.

She spent several moments making sure that there were no more imperfections. She even combed through the hair of his tail, working her way from the bottom to the top. All of that time in the forest had allowed for some tangles to build up. When she was finished, she felt like she had accomplished something. The Count nipped at her sleeve with soft eyes. 

“Thank you, for everythin’. I don’t know where we’d’ve ended up if it weren’t for you.” The Count whinnied in response. Irish smiled again, running her hand down his crest. “Atta boy. Be good for them now, you hear? No kickin’. I’ll be back for you in the mornin’, I promise.”

Irish grabbed the bag of what few belongings she had and left the stall. The Count followed her with his eyes until she was out of sight. She handed money to the owner and walked back to the saloon. Once more, she pushed the doors open. Arthur was right where she had left him at the bar. He leaned his head back. Irish almost missed the shot glass in his hand. She was quick to order a shot for herself, too, setting her bag beside her. It had been a long couple of weeks. No, it had been a long six months. Arthur glanced over at her.

“Feelin’ all right?” he asked.

“‘Yeah. Just thinkin’ about… well, you know.”

“Yeah…”

“You’re all I’ve got left, Arthur. The last of my family.”

“And you’re mine. My family, I mean.” Arthur looked at her, really looked at her. “Hey, thanks for… for comin’ back for me. I woulda died up there if you hadn’t come back for me.”

“I know. Like I said, you’re family. I couldn’t just sit back and let you die. Not if I could actually do somethin’ to stop it.”

“What about John? And the others?”

Irish shrugged. “Last time I saw John, he was headed to Copperhead Landing. Since the Pinkertons were so consumed with Dutch, I doubt they followed him. Even if they had, Sadie was there to protect ‘em, right? And Tilly, too. If the Pinkertons had managed to catch ‘em, we woulda heard about it by now. Catchin’ the legendary John Marston from the Van der Linde gang? That ain’t exactly somethin’ you keep quiet about. God knows they didn’t shut up about it the first time.”

Arthur chuckled. He knew that she was right. John was, despite all outwards appearances saying otherwise, a smart man. When it came to survival, he knew how to get around. Irish didn’t stay for too long. Now that they were actually in a town, she was acutely aware of just how much dirt, blood, and other grime had accumulated on her skin. She asked for the bath. The bartender jerked his head in a noncommittal direction. She placed a quarter on the counter, grumbling under her breath as she went on her quest to find the place for herself. It took a little longer than she would have liked, but once the door to the room was closed behind her, she let herself relax a little, leaning against the door.

She rolled up her sleeve and let her arm dangle in the water. It was still warm. Irish carelessly tossed her clothes to the floor and slid into the metal tub. She went down until the water was up to her ears. Irish closed her eyes and completely submerged herself. The world around her didn’t exist anymore, not while she was underwater. Everything was muffled. She stayed like that until she had to come up for air, gasping to breathe. Irish scrubbed every inch of skin, getting rid of all the dirt from the mountain. She didn’t want any reminders. She wanted a real fresh start. She pretended like she was scrubbing away her old life. All the scars had new stories as she ran her hands over them. Her past didn’t matter anymore. In those few moments, she wasn’t Irish Hammond. She just… was.

She stayed until the water was cold. She stayed because she didn’t want to get out and become Irish again, but she knew that she had to get back to reality. With a heavy sigh, she hefted herself out of the tub and reached for a towel. She spent most of her time drying her hair before searching through her bag for clean clothes. It was the only other set that she had. She’d find a laundress in town for the rest, later. She tucked her shirt into her trousers and looked into the dirty mirror. 

Her eyes were still ringed with dark circles, but their green hue shone much brighter than before. Irish held up a lock of auburn hair for her inspection. Something had to change. She needed change. Before she could question her decision, she found the barber in the saloon and had him chop off her hair until it barely reached her shoulders. Once again, she stared at herself in the mirror. It was a marked improvement, that much was certain. She was slowly starting to see herself again. The image was still so different, but it felt like her, anyway. Whoever she was becoming was just starting to emerge before her very eyes.

She finally made her way to the room she would be sharing with Arthur. It wasn’t anything impressive, really, just a large bed in the center of the room with a vanity chest in one corner. Considering the noises she could hear coming from the other rooms, she knew that this wasn’t a place people stayed for long. Arthur was standing by the window, the curtain hooked on his finger as he watched the streets. The door clicked shut behind Irish and Arthur turned his attention to her. The first thing his eyes locked onto was her hair. She became self conscious very suddenly, running her fingers through it. It was still slightly damp from the bath, but there were no tangles, now.

“It’s bad, ain’t it?” she chuckled nervously.

“No! No, it’s just… different, I guess.”

“Bad different?”

Arthur smiled softly. “Naw. Good. It’s good.”

“Thanks. I think. Anyway, you should take advantage of a bath while we’re in town. We don’t know when the next time we’ll be able to properly bathe will be.”

Arthur nodded in agreement, leaving the room. Irish was alone. She found herself in the same place she had found Arthur when she had first come in. Staring out the window, watching over the street. The moon was high in the sky. Only a few stragglers remained in the streets, most of them too drunk to even find their horses. Some were leaning against posts, talking in hushed voices to the working girls before leading them off somewhere to have some fun. Irish closed the curtains and laid down on the bed. It was creaky and probably covered in questionable stains, but as long as she didn’t move the sheets, she didn’t care. It was a bed and it was a hundred times more comfortable than the sandy stone floor of the cave. She rested her head on the pillow and closed her eyes. Sleep didn’t overtake her. She just stayed there, eyes closed, waiting for something to change.

The only change was the weight added to the other side of the bed. Irish rolled onto her back and saw Arthur sitting on the edge. He was wearing his jeans, but his union suit had been discarded to the side of the room. His back was hunched, his head dipped low. He had dropped his hat on the nightstand. He looked so utterly defeated in that moment. So completely lost. It was like he was just a kid again, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. This must have been what he was like before Dutch and Hosea had found him. What would Arthur had become if they had never seen him? If he had never decided to follow them?

“How did we let it all go to shit, Irish?” he whispered.

Irish crawled over to him. She wrapped her arms around him from behind. Arthur’s skin was warm against her own. It was comforting. She let her head rest on his shoulder. He still smelled like gunsmoke and cigarettes. It was a smell that she was certain would never be fully gone from him, no matter what he tried. She didn’t have an answer for him because he already knew it as well as she did. They had let themselves pretend like things were fine in the hopes that they would fix themselves. Neither of them had wanted to admit just how far Dutch had fallen because he was supposed to be the one that never fell. The one that stood tall and held out a hand to pull those who stumbled to their feet. When he stumbled himself, they had been unable, or unwilling, to see it for themselves. They had to survive on their own, now. No more relying on Dutch or anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been watching a lot of Roger Clark interviews. When I first heard him speak, I WAS IN SHOCK. I really thought this would be a Benjamin Davis/Rob Wiethoff situation but NOPE. He's IRISH/WELSH?! So, yeah
> 
>   
>    
>  also he had to rerecord the lines when talking to a mare at bond level four because it was _toosexualthefirsttime_  
>    
> 


	8. Can't Help Falling in Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _things in italics:_ what Irish/Arthur is thinking about
> 
> Things beneath a line: a change in perspective or a flashback

Running.

Still running. Her legs felt like lead. Her feet didn’t want to lift off of the ground but she kept forcing herself forward. She had to. There was no other choice.

She could feel the breath of something on her neck, but she didn’t dare to look back. She just kept moving on the path. Branches whipped her face and leaves crunched underfoot. There was no way to be quiet about this, not when they were so close. She was defenseless, no gun, no knife, just her hands. Stay on the path. Don’t stray. Don’t even consider it. One wrong step and she was dead. There was no room for a single mistake, yet all she wanted to do was give up. She knew that she couldn’t. Keep moving. Keep running. Eyes forward.

It had to be getting close. The end. It needed to be close. If it wasn’t, she was sure to collapse and then she’d be found and killed. Something. But why was she running? What was chasing her? Why couldn’t she remember? What was waiting for her when she finally reached the end of this road?

* * *

Irish woke up when a soft light hit her eyes. She squinted, scrunching her nose and trying to cling to whatever remnants of sleep that she had left, but she knew it was futile. She started to stretch, reaching her arms high above her head when she noticed the weight around her waist. She turned and saw Athur lying on his stomach, his arm resting on her. A soft smile spread across her lips. Arthur looked peaceful. The sun lit up his features, showing a man who was just tired. He looked younger in his sleep, she noticed. Maybe it was because in his sleep, he wasn’t burdened by his worries. Either way, he was a handsome man, especially now.

Heat rose to Irish’s cheeks. She was quick to roll away from Arthur, carefully placing his arm by her side. Irish walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. Across the street, she saw a young man running to a woman. She was almost jumping when she saw him. He pulled her into a tight embrace, spinning her in circles on the spot. Irish could just barely hear their laughter from where she was.

_She pushed herself up from the dirt. The man, whoever he was, jumped off of his horse and walked over to her. He had almost run her over and she was going to give him a piece of her mind. It wasn’t like she had been walking in the middle of the road! He just hadn’t been paying attention._

_“Why don’t ya keep an eye out next time, you damn fool?!” Irish yelled, brushing off her skirt. “You coulda killed me!”_

_“I am mighty sorry, miss…?”_

_“Irish. Irish Hammond.”_

_“Irish? What kinda name is that?”_

_“It’s a nickname.”_

_“You ain’t even Irish.”_

_“And he’s a genius, too. What gave it away?”_

_“Tell me your real one?”_

_“Buy me a drink first.” She put her hands on her hips._

_He held out a hand to her, a grin spread across his features. She looked him up and down. He didn’t look like he was from a city, but she’d been deceived before. Dark brown hair that was trimmed close and kind brown eyes. She took his hand. It was rough. He knew what it meant to work for something. She doubted that a single thing had been handed to him. Still, she could at least get a free drink or two out of it._

_“My name is-_

Irish shook her head. She didn’t want to think about that, especially not now. She looked away from the couple. She took in the town in the daylight. There were, like she had thought, only a few buildings in town. The saloon, where they were now, the general store, a stable, and the sheriff’s office. There was no train that came through town and the sign she had seen in the bar indicated the nearest post office was 20 miles away, at least. They had a stage coach that came through once a week with mail, payroll, and other supplies that the town might need.

In other words, it was the perfect place to lie low that wasn’t a cave on a mountain. She doubted that any Pinkertons even knew that this town existed. In terms of a backwater town, this was about as back as it could get. A perfect hiding place for two outlaws on the run. There was a part of her that hoped the Pinkertons believed they’d died on that mountain with Micah. Had they found his body yet, or was he doomed to freeze there forever, a monument to his failure? The thought of his body being preserved by the snow and ice made Irish shiver.

She glanced through the town. It wasn’t completely just plains for as far as they could see. There was a spot to the west filled with trees. Coverage. That’s all that Irish could see. She and Arthur would be able to find a clearing there, she was sure. They could put up their tents. They’d still be close to town but far enough away that they wouldn’t have to worry about any prying eyes. A good place. If it were the whole gang, it would be a different story. But that didn’t matter. It really didn’t because the gang didn’t exist anymore. It was just them.

Arthur groaned softly. Irish turned to face him. Arthur slowly got up, sitting on the edge of the bed. Just like last night. His head was still hanging low. It sent a pang through her heart to see him like that. It didn’t last long. He took a deep breath and turned to face her.

“Nice to wake up in a bed for once,” he chuckled.

“Definitely. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep in a cave again, even if it is to save my life. Or your life. Never again.” She sat next to him and looked at his chest. There was still a series of bruises, though most of them were the sickly green and yellow colour of a healing wound. She gently pressed down on a few, asking if it hurt. He shook his head each time. She held her hands on either side of his face, moving him around so she could get a better look at the few wounds still healing there. He’d shaved, but there was still stubble on his cheeks. “Well, I can at least say you look better than John after the wolves got ‘im.”

Arthur scoffed. “So I’m still an ugly sonuvabitch. Good to know.”

“Hey. You’re not ugly, y’know.”

“You’ve gotta say that. I’m your patient.”

“I’m serious, Arthur. You just… you gotta stop thinkin’ about yourself like that.” Irish made him look at her. She knew that things hadn’t been good for him. First, with Mary leaving. Then Eliza and Isaac. They had left him scarred and broken. Maybe it wasn’t her job to fix him and put the pieces back together, but she was going to try. “Even with your grumpy face, you’re a handsome man, Arthur Morgan. Why else would all the girls have put up with you as long as they did?”

Arthur stared at her. She sheepishly let go of him and took a step back. The hint of a smile played on Arthur’s lips. She would be lying if she said the same look wasn’t threatening to break across her own face. She hoped that the blush on her cheeks wasn’t too obvious.

“You only put up with me?”

“Shut up. I’m headin’ down to look for work. Honest work, whatever that may be. That money ain’t gonna last us forever and that was the only thing Dutch had right in the end. The only way we’re gonna survive is with some money.”

He nodded in agreement. “I’ll do the same. Keep an ear out for mentions of the gang, while I’m at it.”

“Sounds good. Meet me at the stables ‘round noon. We’ll pick a place to set up camp. There’s a wooded area over to the west. Should be a good enough place for the two of us.”

Irish pulled on her boots and found her hat. She placed it on her head and reached for the door.

_”Y’know I love you, Irish.” He smiled as he put the worn hat on her head. It slid down a little, covering her eyes. She pushed it back and glared at him for a moment. “Don’t you worry about me. Three days for me to buy some land and then I’ll be back for you. Promise.”_

_“All right. Just be careful out there, okay?” She held his hand tightly. Irish was scared to let go. The twisting knot in her stomach had refused to go away the whole morning. It seemed to get worse now that he was finally heading on his way. “Don’t know what I’d do if somethin’ happened to you.”_

_“I’m always careful, darlin’.” He pressed a kiss to her lips lightly and mounted his horse._

_Irish’s fingers brushed her lips, memorising the feeling of his kiss. “Always.”_

Irish walked out of the saloon and straight to the general store. It was the best place that she could think of that might have some leads for steady work. Well, steady enough work. A few weeks, that was all that she needed. Surely someone in this town could use a hand doing something. That was what she was hoping, anyway. There was always the chance that they wouldn’t want any work from strangers. She had had people like that before, especially in small towns like this. People didn’t always like people they didn’t know. She understood that. Hell, she felt the same way. People were hard to trust. She had seen too many bad men to be able to trust so easily. Irish put on her best face and smiled as she pushed open the general store door.

The first thing she was hit with was the familiar smell of spice. It seemed like no matter where you went, the general store would smell like that strange mix of spices wafting from the till in the center of the store. The shelves were lined with various products, ranging from cigars to fresh produce. The things that tended to be more expensive were on the top shelf to keep them away from the sticky fingers of children. Irish had taught some orphanage kids how to get to those things when she was young. She wondered, a little selfishly, if that tradition had been passed down after she left?

She walked to the counter and smiled at the cashier.

“Howdy, mister. I was hopin’ that you might have some work. I don’t much care what it is, as long as it’s honest and it pays,” she said.

The man looked her up and down in the way that most men did. She kept her smile on her lips and her desire to rip his lingering eyes from his head tucked inside. He let out a heavy sigh.

“Well, I ain’t got nothin’ here,” he said in a heavy accent, “but you might check in with the doc. Works out the Sheriff’s most days. Could always use some help down there.”

“Thank you kindly, sir.”

She flashed her smile once more and walked out of the door once more. She slowly made her way to the sheriff’s office. Instinctively, she checked the bounty board. There wasn’t any poster for her or Arthur. That was a good sign, at least. She looked to the sleeping man at the desk. 

“‘Cuse me? Sheriff?” She kicked the desk. The sheriff jerked awake, snorting as he opened his eyes. “I’m lookin’ for the doctor. I was told he’d be here?”

“Right. Doctor York. Right this way.”

He led her out of the main room into a smaller area just before the cells. In terms of a doctor’s office, it wasn’t the best place, but it seemed like the town was making due. It was well stocked with herbs, tonics, and other tools and remedies she didn’t have a name for. A single chair was under the single electric light in the room. Several lamps were lit around the room. It gave the pale amber glow a more comfortable feel. A desk was in the corner and at it sat an older gentleman, gray just starting to appear in his beard. He turned to face them. His face easily gave way to the wrinkles around his eyes as he smiled to welcome them. 

“Hello, hello. How may I be of assistance, young lady?” he asked.

“Doctor York? My name is Hanna Smith. I was told that you might have some work available for me. I’m stayin’ in town for a couple of weeks with a friend of mine and I’d like to make some money while I’m here, if at all possible.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I could always use help around here. Come by tomorrow morning and I’ll get you acquainted with what we have here, Miss Smith.”

“Thank you, sir! Thank you. You won’t regret this, I promise. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She hurried out of the office and towards the stables. She was in high spirits. Things were looking up. For now, at least. Irish saw Arthur at the doors of the stables, shaking hands with the owner. He glanced and saw her. He finished his conversation, walking over to her.

“Any luck?” Irish asked.

“Sure. The owner needs some help ‘round the stables. It ain’t as glamorous as robbin’ trains, but it pays,” Arthur replied.

“And any word on our friends?”

“Nothin’ that ain’t been said before. I don’t think they get a lot of news ‘round these parts. We’ll be good for a little while .”

Irish nodded. “Good. That’s… that’s good. We should find a place to camp. C’mon, let’s head out.”

* * *

“Excuse me, are you Miss Hammond?”

“Yes. Who’s askin’?” Irish stood and brushed the dirt off of her hands. She looked the man before her up and down. He was well dressed for someone this far into the country, but what stood out the most was the shiny deputy’s badge pinned to his vest. She could feel her heart falling before he even opened his mouth to speak again.

“I’m sorry to say this, ma’am, but we… we found your fiance.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, it seems he was robbed and left for dead. I am terribly, terribly sorry for your loss, ma’am. If there is-”

The deputy’s voice faded away as she fell back to her knees. She was numb. Completely numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought that title was about Irish and Arthur but NO! This burn is STILL SLOW


	9. Talking to Myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE BACKSTORY and also some chill hours with the boyz

10 days. They had been by Blue Banks for 10 days and so far, nothing unseemly had happened. Almost every day, Irish would go to Doctor York. She mostly helped him organise supplies and occasionally she would be there when a patient needed someone to hold on to. She had seen quite a man die after a hunting accident. It was a nasty business, to be sure. She had seen worse in her life. It wasn’t the man himself that had gotten to Irish. It was his wife when she found out. It was a pain that Irish knew all too well and yet there was nothing she could do to ease the pain of that woman. Not even time would fully get rid of the dull pain. Irish pitied the woman, but she knew that nothing she said would help. The wife would just have to find the strength on her own.

Today was a day off, the first one she had allowed herself to really have and it was only because Arthur had practically ordered her to. So, there she sat, leaning against a tree, sharpening her knife. She had never really been good with days off. It felt like she was Uncle, just living off of everyone else’s work. She hated that feeling, but she knew better than to ignore Arthur’s concerns. Besides, she’d made him agree to do the same. He was sitting a little ways off. His journal was resting against his legs while he sketched, his pencil moving quickly across the paper.

Irish got to her feet and walked over to him before sitting again, this time resting against the same rock he was. She followed his line of sight. He was looking up and down at the horses grazing not too far off. They’d gotten a second horse the second day that they were in town. She wasn’t anything too impressive, a Standardbred, with a dark coat. Arthur had named her Brigadier. She certainly was beautiful in this light.

“You ever gonna show me what’s in that journal of yours?” Irish joked.

“Not even after I’m dead,” Arthur responded.

“Now, that’s not very fair, Arthur Morgan. You’re just makin’ it more temptin’. Guess I’ll just have to search through your satchel when you’re sleepin’.”

“Do you wanna lose some fingers? ‘Cos that’s how it’ll happen.”

Irish let out a lazy laugh. Arthur knew it was an empty threat. She leaned her head against his shoulder, still looking at the Count and Brigadier. They were grazing lazily, happily. Irish liked to think that the Count was enjoying the company. He was a little less uppity than normal. Of course, he still refused to let Arthur on his back unless Irish was there first. It still made her chuckle every time she watched Arthur struggle to get a foot in the stirrup.

She didn’t want to get too comfortable here in this camp. Somehow, it was even easier to let her guard down when it was just the two of them than when it was the group. Maybe it was because everyone was always there to remind the others that there was a bounty on their head, or Pinkertons breathing down their necks. Maybe it was Dutch’s constant commands to get more money. She had just always felt on edge in camp. This was more different than she cared to admit. She was constantly reminding herself where they were and why they were there. They had prices on their heads. Arthur’s alone was at least $5,000, probably more after the Saint Denis job. Irish had never checked for herself, but she was certain it couldn’t be that much lower. It was certainly high enough to attract bounty hunters. They wouldn’t be allowed to fade into obscurity, not for a long while.

* * *

Arthur rubbed his hand across his cheek. “Are you sure about this, Dutch? Ain’t you the one always told me small town banks ain’t worth it?”

“And normally, they ain’t. But I had Annabel do some scoutin’ around to see what was goin’ on in this town. Apparently, they keep a lot of cash near the end of the month. Payroll and money for supplies. An easy target for us. I sent Hosea on ahead, too. You know how he is.” Dutch hit Arthur’s shoulder. “Have a little faith, my boy. At the end of the month, we’ll hit the bank and be on our merry way.”

The young man nodded, unsure of what else to do. Dutch had never led him wrong before. He was just nervous about something going wrong. Mary had constantly been in his ear as of late, telling him to get out while he still could. Arthur looked at his friend. He couldn’t just leave. He didn’t know what he was going to do. Every time that she brought it up, he felt more confused. Mary knew just how to make a fool out of Arthur, that much was certain. He didn’t mind it all too much when she was around, but when she was gone, it left his mind reeling. He was going to have to figure it all out sooner or later, but for now, he needed to focus on this new job. Dutch was always planning scores like this one. Arthur just hoped that it would be worth it.

“All right, Dutch, how about we-”

Someone bumped into Arthur’s shoulder. He growled in frustration and reached out to grab the shoulder of the asshole, but they were already gone. He looked forward and saw a man running fast away from him.

“Well, well, Mr. Morgan, it seems someone has relieved you of your satchel,” Dutch chuckled.

Arthur looked to his side and cursed loudly. “Hey! Get back here!”

Whoever it was looked back briefly and ran even faster. Dutch continued laughing while Arthur started running. He almost lost sight of the thief three times as he ran down alleys and jumped fences. The third time, he was certain that his things were gone for good. It was the sound of someone shushing people that drew him in again. He was fuming, out of breath and probably red in the face. He didn’t care. He was about ready to shoot this fool. But he saw who the fool in question was talking to and what he was doing. 

He was handing out the food and medicine to a small group of kids that looked like they’d just come out of some rough work. They were scrawny with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. The thief kept them all in order, handing out what he could.

“Howdy,” Arthur said, announcing himself.

The thief jumped. He turned around and gave Arthur his first good look.

The first thing he noticed is that it wasn’t, in fact, a man that had robbed him. It was a young woman with auburn hair tucked into a worn gambler hat. There were light scratches that stood out red against pale skin. She dressed in men’s clothes that were too big for her, held up with an old pair of cotton suspenders. She had a fire in her eyes that he only saw in those that had lived a life like the kids she was standing in front of. She held out the satchel to Arthur.

“Look, I left all the money and personal shit in there, all right? I understand if you wanna take your revenge or whatever on me for givin’ out that food, but I will not let you take a single crumb from them, got it?” She said.

The sound of her voice matched the fury in her eyes. He had no doubts that the marks on her face were from folks taking her up on that fighting offer. Arthur grabbed the satchel and looked through it. Truly, he’d only been worried about the journal. Inside was a small ring he planned on giving to Mary soon. He just hadn’t found the time yet.

“No real harm done. People been shot for less.”

“By you?”

“Could be.”

“Well, thanks for bein’ so understandin’, Mr…?”

“Morgan. Arthur Morgan.”

“Irish Hammond.”

She held out her hand. He shook it lightly.

“Until we meet again, Mr. Morgan.” 

With that, she was off again, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. Arthur was dumbfounded. He didn’t think there was anyone in these towns that actually cared about helping folk. He was glad to see that he was wrong. It made it a little bit easier to believe in the world that Dutch was always talking about. It could even come about in his lifetime if he was lucky.

“Wouldn’t get too close to that one if I was you, mister.”

Arthur turned and saw some codger that looked a little too much like Uncle for his liking. “What was that?”

“Don’t get close to ‘er. Heard her fiance died a few months back. Killed by some raiders or the like. She killed ‘em all. Didn’t even have no gun with ‘er. A complete slaughter.”

Arthur glanced to where she had just been. The woman had an air of mystery about her and it just kept getting stranger. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

* * *

Irish continued to stare out at the horses with her head on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur’s pencil had long since stopped scratching against the paper, now resting in the center of the journal. Irish looked up at him. He was somewhere else entirely, his gaze fixated on something that she couldn’t see. She poked his chest.

“Penny for your thoughts?” She asked.

“Just thinkin’ about the day we met.”

“You mean when I nearly robbed you blind?”

“As I recall, you only took my food and were willin’ to take a beatin’ for it. How old was you, anyways?”

“19.”

“I was… I was wonderin’ about them rumours floatin’ around you.”

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

“About you killin’ all them folk.”

“Ah. That.” Irish sat up. She started tracing patterns into the grass, letting her finger get tangled in the longer parts. She wasn’t even sure where to begin. “Well, I s’pose I should start by sayin’ it wasn’t a gang of men the way folk was talkin’ about. Just three men who weren’t smart enough to run. I couldn’t afford a gun, so I took a huntin’ knife and killed ‘em while they slept. Only reason folk talked at all was ‘cos they couldn’t prove I had anythin’ to do with it. Them boys weren’t missed by anyone anyway.”

“Do you have any regrets?”

“Nope. Led me to you folks, didn’t it?”

“What was his name? Your fiance, I mean. I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned him before.”

“I haven’t. I wanted to forget him. He was… Layton was… I dunno. Everythin’ and perfect and flawed in all the best ways. He believed in me, at least. Can’t say that ‘bout many people back then.” It had been a long time since Irish had thought about Layton. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. That couple from when they first arrived in Blue Banks had brought up all kinds of old memories and feelings. Things that she had thought that she’d let go of. Things that still hurt.

“I was s’posed to be with him that day. He was goin’ to buy some land for us. We was gonna build a home for all them kids stuck in the streets or the orphanage. Those three men came and stole his money and killed him for his troubles. When he died, I became a different person. Less carin’, I think. ‘Course, that was a long, long time ago.” She pulled her knees to her chest. “If you fellers hadn’t come along when you did, I woulda died young.”

In those days, when they had found there, the gang wasn’t nearly as big as it was at the end. There were only nine of them before Irish had joined up. Then Annabel died, Mary left, and Bill came along. After Annabel, Irish had tried to step up more in the gang. She’d told Hosea it was so she didn’t kill Grimshaw, but she’d really wanted to keep an eye on Dutch. She couldn’t help but feel that the part of him that used to be focused on protecting the gang no matter what and helping others before helping himself had died a little with her. That woman had an undeniable fire about her that Irish had always envied. Annabel kept Dutch in line, that much was certain.

“Ms. Grimshaw tried for months to get me to do work more ‘befittin’ a lady of my station’ or some such nonsense.”

“You never had any of that. Always tryin’ to go ridin’ with me and John.”

It was true. Any time that Susan would tell her to do something around the camp, Irish would find one of the boys and ask them to take her out. They always came back with money or food, but Irish would get an earful from Ms. Grimshaw about what she needed to be doing. Bessie would be there to stand up for her with a protective arm around her shoulders. Annabel would laugh it off and Mary would just scoff and go find Arthur. Oh, Irish had never liked Mary. She’d only known the other woman for a few months before she ran off to get married to whats-his-name and left Arthur broken-hearted. Mary was never suited to the life of the gang and Arthur wasn’t ready to do anything else.

Irish wondered if Arthur would go to Mary now that he was out. The thought of him leaving to go be with Mary again hurt Irish more than she cared to admit. It was an unpleasantly familiar feeling. It was more than just being alone again. Irish could handle being alone. It was the idea of Arthur leaving her to be with Mary. Arthur preferring Mary over her. Arthur choosing someone else. That was what hurt. Something had changed with their relationship. It was… different after all of this. Irish would have to be a fool not to see it. She gazed up at Arthur. He smiled softly at her. She rested her head against his shoulder again. It felt so much more complicated now. There was so much that she had to sort through, so many things that she needed to consider. It would make things so much easier to be like how it was before.

Only, she didn’t want it to go back to how it used to be.

* * *

“Y’know, if you boys are really plannin’ on robbin’ this town, I wouldn’t go for the bank,” Irish said.

Arthur and his friend, some tall, well dressed man with oiled back dark hair, turned to face her. She was sitting above them in the tree on the hill, one leg dangling off of a branch. She tossed an orange peel to the ground and considered the fruit before taking a bite. Arthur stuffed his binoculars back into his satchel. She didn’t turn her gaze to him as he started walking to her perch. 

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?” Arthur asked.

“‘Cause the story about the end of the month is a ploy. Used to be true, ‘course, ‘til some Jack Hall Gang or whoever came through here. Now, they keep it up to catch dumb fools like you folks.”

“Still gotta keep that money somewhere,” the man next to Arthur said. “Dutch van der Linde.”

“Irish Hammond.” She jumped to the ground and stepped in front of Dutch. He was at least half a foot taller than her, but she stood her ground confidently. “Orange slice?”

Dutch grinned and took her up on her offer. “I like this one, Arthur. All right then, Ms. Hammond. Where should we go, then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, she met Dutch and gained two brothers and two fathers and also some mother figures too I guess if you look at Susan and Annabel and Bessie. And also a reluctant friend (Mary). Man, the gang is complicated.


	10. Wanted Dead or Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff is going down.

“Send Mr. Callahan my best regards, Ms. Smith,” Dr. York said with a smile.

“‘Course. See you tomorrow, doctor.”

Irish walked out of the small room and on the deck of the sheriff’s office. She stretched as far as she could without pulling something. The sun was just beginning to lower in the sky. Irish had promised to wait until Arthur was done with work before heading back to camp. He apparently had something he wanted to talk about. She could only imagine what it could be. When it came to Arthur it could range from a robbery to some new bird he’d found while out riding. She would just have to wait with baited breath for her answer.

She wasn’t really sure when he would be let off of work, so she headed down to the saloon to blow off some steam. It would be nice to relax with a drink or two before heading back home. The people here knew her and Arthur now. Of course, they knew them as Hanna Smith and Arthur Callahan, but they were still good people. They treated each other with respect and expected the same in return. She liked that. They hadn’t lived the soft, pampered lives of those in the cities. She grimaced as she thought of Angelo Bronte. She would never understand how people had lived like that. It would drive her insane in less than an hour. She’d take her 25 cent whiskey and canvas tent over one of those mansions any day.

The bartender greeted her with a smile when she sat down. The stool creaked a little under her weight.

“You ever gonna fix these damned stools, Seamus?” she joked.

“Buy 20 bottles of bourbon and we’ll talk,” he retorted.

She smiled. She liked it here. Irish knew that they were going to have to leave eventually, but it was a nice little town and a fun place to lay low. No law besides the sheriff and his couple of deputies and they didn’t like bounty hunters in this town. She hadn’t seen a single poster for her or Arthur since they’d been there. The Pinkertons seemed to be completely focused on Dutch. She couldn’t blame them. In fact, she was thanking them. It was keeping the law off of her hide anyway. Irish ordered a shot of whiskey.

Something slammed on the counter next to her. She glanced over. A gloved hand was covering a piece of paper. The man slid into the seat next to her. He smelled like stale smoke and like he had never heard of a bath. It was rancid but she kept her face neutral. She pulled down the brim of her hat and looked in front of her.

“Can I help you, sir?” She asked.

“Depends. You Irish Hammond?” 

“Never heard of her.” Irish finished her shot and set down a quarter. She got up to leave. The man put his hand on her shoulder and forced her back in her chair. She didn’t say anything. She needed to plan a way out of this. Somehow.

“Strange, ‘cos you look a lot like her, darlin’. Though I suppose we had heard she was dead. Funny to see a dead girl walkin’ ‘round.”

Irish clenched her fist against the bar. Her nails dug into her palm. She had to keep it under control. “Funny indeed.”

“‘Most folk, if they seen a ghost, would just put a bullet in ya. ‘Course, the bounty does say dead or alive. Your choice, Hammond. You wanna live to see the noose?”

Irish took a deep breath. The bartender was looking at her like she was a criminal. Which, sure, she was, but she’d never done wrong by any of the people in Blue Banks. That wouldn’t matter now, naturally. Word would spread. Irish knew what she had to do. She couldn’t let these people get pulled up into her mess. And she couldn’t risk Arthur getting hurt because of the gunfire. He would still have a chance to get out of here. It didn’t seem like they had any information about him. Maybe that was too slim of a chance to bank it all on, but she had no choice. One of them could still get out of this and be home free. Arthur was smart enough to know that he had to run away from here. He’d hear about what happened to her, about her being taken, and he would know to leave. It was just him. He couldn’t risk coming after her.

“All right then, boys, let’s head out.”

She left with them willingly. Still, as soon as she was outside, they tied her wrists behind her back and hoisted her onto a horse. She was given the small dignity of not being stowed on her stomach over the back. Irish kept her head held high. People looked out to see what the small commotion was about. No one dared question why she was being taken and no one offered any help. It wasn’t like there was much that they could do, anyway. There were at least six bounty hunters, each of them with guns trained on Irish. Her pistols had been taken. Her knife, too. At least, the one from her belt. She could feel the second, smaller blade in her boot. If she was lucky, they wouldn’t find that one and she’d have an opportunity to cut through the ropes around her wrists.

If she was that lucky.

Irish racked her brain for anytime she might have let slip who she was or where she came from. Maybe it really was just dumb bad luck that had led those men to her. If they’d really thought she had died, then they could have been on the trail of someone else. It was possible that more members of the gang had ended up out this way. If it was Bill, it made sense that they would be over here already. Williamson had never been able to stay subtle for a moment in his life. But wouldn’t she have heard if he’d been in the area? Irish had been doing her best to keep up with whatever information she could get out here and she hadn’t heard anything about Bill. Or Dutch and Javier, for that matter. For whatever reason, Dutch was somehow managing to lie low for the first time since she had known him.

They were going to expect her to know where he was. She had no doubts in her mind about that. She was a known associate of the gang. The thought of what they would do to her was terrifying. They wouldn’t be the ones to kill her, but she was going to die. She wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of information. All of the secrets that they used to have in the gang would stay secret. She would never tell them about Arthur or John. Hell, she wouldn’t even tell them anything she knew about Dutch and the others. They would go with Irish to her grave.

The man on whose horse she was on was getting a little handsy. She fantasized about cutting them off to take her mind off of it. Irish didn’t make a noise. She gave no indications that she felt anything about any of this other than annoyance. 

And she was annoyed. This was the last thing that she was going to experience in this life? The clumsy hands of a fool whose breath smelled like death? Tight ropes cutting into her skin, only adding to the sense of her impending doom? After all that she had been through, this was her end. She had always assumed it would come in the form of a firefight. She’d even thought that she might be killed in her sleep if she pissed off the wrong person. But the end of a rope? That was one thing that had never crossed her mind. There had always been a gurantee that someone would come for her before that happened. If that ever happened. She’d never been caught like this before. She’d always fought back and won. It was funny to see how quickly things changed.

God, she hoped that Arthur was safe. She wished she could have yelled for him to run or left some kind of note telling him to leave. Something, anything to make sure that he got away safely. Once he heard what happened, he’d go back to camp, pack up, and move on. She had to hold onto that thought, the thought of Arthur being safe, to bear the ride to the bounty hunters’ camp.

She was forced off the horse and to the ground. She fell on her side and coughed, trying to twist her arms to be more comfortable. Irish was dragged by the collar of her shirt to a post in the center of the camp next to the fire. She kicked out a few times out of instinct while they made sure she was secured. Her back was up against the rough wood, hands still behind her back. She rested on her knees. Irish wasn’t afraid to meet the eyes of her attackers with fire in her gaze. She considered how she might get her knife now. If she were on the edge of camp it would be easy. Now, she’d have to hope that they left a negligent guard. Then how would she get it to her hands? 

“Well, well, well, looky here, boys. We got ourselves a fighter. Don’t you know it’s better to be a lover, darlin’?” One of the men laughed. 

She looked the man up and down and raised an eyebrow. He was dressed in dirty clothes, a nasty scar running down his cheek. “If you fuckheads are what lovers look like, I’ll stick to the fightin’.”

“Ah, she speaks. Such dirty words from a pretty mouth. Could be put to much better use, if you ask me.”

“Sorry, pal, but I ain’t some two-bit whore. Grabbed the wrong gal for that one.”

He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. “You’re whatever the hell I say you are.”

She got what she wanted. He was close enough that she could spit in his eye. He pushed her away from him, slamming her into the post. He pulled his pistol from his holster and hit the side of Irish’s head. Her neck whipped to the side. She was quick to look at him again. She could feel blood running down her cheek. She couldn’t care less about it.

“Try harder next time. I’ve seen a four year old hit with more force than you.”

Before he could hit her again, one of his pals, some kid, pulled his arm up. She didn’t pay attention to what they said, taking into account how many teeth she had left. She counted herself lucky that none had come loose from that hit. The bounty hunters started drinking and eating, just getting more and more rowdy as the sun got lower in the sky. She leaned back against the post and stared at the sky. Stars were slowly appealing.

“Always have a home,” she whispered as she found the North Star.

They came back to her when they were done, stinking drunk and angry. They asked questions. How many more of them were in that town? Where was the rest of the gang? Where was Dutch? When she didn’t answer, she was kicked. When she did, it was all lies or laughter, treating them like the idiots that they were. The only truth she gave them was that the gang was gone. Dispersed and disbanded. They didn’t like that one bit. Scar, the one who hit her with his gun, kicked her ribs. She was certain that she heard a sickening crack when he did but she couldn’t show just how much it had hurt. It was hours of this. Or perhaps it was only moments. She couldn’t tell.

“Treated ol’ Kieran better than this,” she muttered.

* * *

“Please,” the O’Driscoll boy begged, “just a drink of water, please!”

Irish looked up from her book. Dutch was off by the cliff’s edge, talking with Hosea. Arthur had gone into town with the girls and Uncle. Micah and Lenny were gone. There wasn’t really anyone there to see her. Irish grumbled under her breath and stood, setting the book on her cot. She grabbed a cup and dipped it in water before marching over to Kieran. She took another look around camp before holding it to his lips.

“You ever speak of this, I’ll kill you myself, O’Driscoll. Now shut up, I’m tryin’ to read.”

The kid nodded enthusiastically. She dumped the rest of the water on the ground and walked away again. Maybe it would actually be quiet, now.

* * *

Arthur wiped his hands on his jeans. Water was dripping down his face. The stable owner waved him off after giving him the rest of his pay for the week and Arthur was gone. He had important things to do today. He hadn’t felt this nervous in a long time. Not since Mary, really. He knew that he didn’t really deserve what he was after, but he had to try. Irish had done so much for him, he had to try. He’d asked her to wait for him in town. The only place he could think that she’d go to is the saloon. They’d get a drink there and then go back to camp. He’d tell her there. Yeah, it was better that it was just the two of them. Then she could yell and reject him in private.

On second thought, maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

No, he had made up his mind. He was going through with this. There wasn’t anything else he could think of that would warrant this anyway. Maybe a new drawing of a bird or something but there wasn’t time for that now. Arthur stopped by one of the barrels of water and looked at his wavy reflection. He pushed his hair back out of his face. That was as good as it was going to get. He affixed his hat and kept moving. The Count was hitched right outside the saloon. He stamped the ground a couple of times as Arthur passed. Arthur walked into the saloon. Instantly, he noticed folks looking at him differently. Some of them almost had a pitying look in their eyes. He sat at the bar.

“What’s goin’ on, Seamus?” He asked.

“Ah, Mr. Callahan. There was an… well, an incident, I s’pose, earlier with Ms. Smith.”

Arthur’s heart was pounding in his chest. “Mind bein’ more specific?”

“Some men. They called her… oh, what was it… Hammond. Took her out to their horses and tied her up. I think they was bounty hunters or the like. Rode off a couple of hours ago with her.”

Irish had been taken by bounty hunters. The thought rang through Arthur’s head, taking over everything. He pushed back through the doors and mounted Brigadier. His hand rested on his pistol. He didn’t know what his plan was, but he knew what he had to do. He had to get her back. It was what she’d do for him. It was what she _had_ done for him. Arthur spurred Brigadier to a gallop. There had to still be time. 

There just had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the slow burn has found purchase and picks up speed.


	11. Don't Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Father's Day, folks! Comment if you think Arthur Morgan would have been a wonderful father and Rockstar should have given him that chance!

_Was the end close? Was the path finally coming to an end? Irish tripped over her feet as she ran. She was quick to push herself back up and keep moving. She had to keep moving. No matter how much it hurt to breath with bruised ribs, no matter how much the branches slapping her face made her face sting. No matter how much she struggled against the bindings on her wrists._

Irish jerked awake, straining against the ropes for a few moments. Her wrists were sore from the rope burns. All the blood from the beatings had dried to an uncomfortable extent. The front of her shirt was stiff. She sniffed a little. Her nose hurt, too. It was probably broken. She hadn’t had the time or energy to really take into account all the damage they had done. They’d moved camp three times. They only stayed in one place for a few hours, just enough for people to rest up and then they’d move again. From what she could gather, they were going to Saint Denis, but first they had to get to a train station. She’d be tried for everything she’d ever been caught doing. Most certainly Blackwater would be a big part of that. Saint Denis. The bank in Valentine, too, probably. God dammit, she’d done a lot of dumb shit those last few months. Make noise, make money, get the hell out. 

_What a great master plan, Dutch! Look how well it had worked out!_ she wanted to yell.

She winced when the rope hit a particularly sore spot. Was that what it would feel like around her neck? Perhaps she’d be lucky enough to break her neck first and die instantly. It wasn’t even a competition as to which appealed to her more. People would cheer as the rope was put around her throat and the sheriff read out the charges. They’d ask for her last words - she’d have to make it something good - and then the lever would be pulled. It would end like that, just like it had for Colm O’Driscoll. If there was an afterlife, she wasn’t looking forward to sharing it with him. That would be her own Hell. The horrible thought of Colm being the one torturing her for all eternity crossed her mind. She shuddered. That would be worse than Hell. That would… she could understand the seven levels of hell now. That would be the eighth circle for sure.

If they hadn’t tied her arms above her head, she could’ve gotten the knife in her boot. She could still feel it there, pressing against her jeans, taunting her with just how close it really was. She had clearly underestimated these men. They’d probably had someone cut through the ropes before and they knew that this position prevented her from getting anything into her hands. None of them were actually watching her. Just more things to taunt her with. It didn’t seem like any of them were even taking this seriously. She couldn’t really blame them. The ropes were really tight. She pulled once and winced again. 

If she was able to get free, she could overpower the little guy to her left with ease and take his repeater. Once she had that, she just had to get to some cover. She was a better shot than these fools. She had no doubts in her mind about that. She could pick them off one by one until it was just her and Scar. Oh, she would take great pleasure in treating him the way he’d treated her. Break a few ribs, his nose, maybe even snap his arm like a twig. That would give her so much joy. She kept that fantasy in the back of her mind.

If they hadn’t come to her while she was in town she would have fought back! If Irish hadn’t been so worried about what would happen to Arthur, she would have fought back. If the gang was still around, she would have fought back.

More and more ifs and buts ran through her mind, overtaking her thoughts. She could feel tears stinging the back of her eyes. She shook her head. No. She wasn’t going to cry for these fools. Well, it wasn’t really _for_ them, but she refused to let them see her tears. No tears until she was dead. She scoffed as she thought about Dutch’s escape plan again. From the moment that she’d agreed to follow them, she’d been doomed to this life. The Cult of Dutch had forced her on this path. They were never going to make it out west or to Tahiti or wherever Dutch wanted to go in the end.

Her head hit the rough bark of the tree behind her. Irish winced a little. It felt like her brain was being rattled around in her head. She felt like mush. Everything hurt. The sun burned her eyes, even when they were closed. She could always pretend that the heat of Hell was Tahiti.

* * *

The only sound in the camp was of Irish’s knife sliding back and forth against the whetstone. Blackened steel shone in the bright Guarma sun. She felt like she was roasting, even after she had gone down to her chemise and a pair of trousers given to her by one of Hercule’s men. They were ill fitting, but 100 times better than the petticoat she’d arrived on this island in. She could only think that if this was what Tahiti was going to be like, then she didn’t want any of it.

_Milton stared through the bank windows. Irish leaned back against the wall, occasionally glancing out. Milton waved a hand and had someone brought forward. Irish couldn’t stop the sound that escaped her mouth as she saw Hosea pushed forward into the streets. He had a bruise forming across his cheek. Milton kept talking, but Irish was only paying attention to Hosea. His eyes locked with hers. She could see that he knew what was going to happen. There was no stopping this now. He mouthed something to her._

_The gunshot rang in her ears. It was so much louder than everything else. Hosea’s blood stained the streets, his clothes, and he fell to the ground, clutching the wound. Irish could feel it in her stomach. She could feel his blood on her hands. She fell to the floor as everyone started shooting. Charles pulled her behind the desk. Her eyes were wide. She wanted to cry out but no tears would come._

_This was Dutch’s fault._

They would get back to the States and Irish would leave. She made up her mind. As soon as she was able, she was going to run away and be on her own. It would hurt to leave some of them. John and his family, Arthur, Sadie… but what other choice did she have? Irish would try and get some of the others to come with her, but she doubted that any of them would. She just knew that she had to get out before she ended up like Hosea. Like Lenny. Sean, Mac, Davey, Jenny. The list went on and on. Javier could be next. Charles had probably been taken. John definitely had. Abigail, maybe, had managed to get away. 

_Irish turned to run to John. Dutch grabbed her shoulder and forced her through the hole Arthur had blown in the wall. She watched as John was overtaken by Pinkertons. She could have gone back. She could have-_

_“Climb, Irish! Fuckin’ move!” Dutch yelled._

She could have helped him. Why had Dutch stopped her? If he hadn’t pushed her, she could have gotten John out of there. Her grip tightened on her knife. She stopped moving it against the stone. The more that she thought about it, the angrier she got. She tossed the whetstone to the ground and stabbed her knife into the table next to her. The noise caught the attention of Micah, but only for a second. He immediately went back to whatever it was that he was doing. It certainly wasn’t anything productive. He only ever paced around the makeshift camp. Arthur was out there actually helping Hercule’s men. Irish had gotten as much information that she could about where Javier was and given it to Dutch. He had left camp without her sometime. She didn’t care. Irish pushed away the thought that if she had gone with him, she probably wouldn’t have come back again. Unfortunately, the man she couldn’t trust any longer was her only chance at getting home.

Arthur stumbled into camp. Irish caught him before he could fall. He looked exhausted and beaten. Blood was drying in his beard and a few strands of hair were stuck to his face. She got him to one of the cots before asking what happened.

“Taken. Fussar’s men. Beat me. Got Hercule’s boys out, though,” Arthur muttered.

Irish handed him a bottle of rum. He took it gladly. She stayed with him until he passed out. He was in no state to go see Dutch now. He needed sleep, especially if what he had told her was true. She leaned against his cot. He was snoring softly. Arthur didn’t get nearly enough rest. He was always so concerned about the rest of the camp and making sure that they all had whatever they needed. He’d gone out of his way to get things for others. Whenever he got back to camp, he looked more ragged and worse than when he had left. She hated seeing what this gang was doing to him. Arthur deserved more. He deserved better.

Irish looked out over the island ruins. They were never going to find peace. Even here, it followed them. It would follow them wherever they went. She pulled her knees to her chest. Too much had happened. Too many people had died. She didn’t dare close her eyes out of fear of seeing young Lenny’s brains spread over the rooftop again. They would be running until they ran out of roads to go on. 

The Pinkertons had probably already burned Hosea and Lenny’s bodies. They would never get a proper burial like they deserved. How could this have happened? She knew the answer to that. Dutch had gotten too ambitious. After the trolley job went wrong, they should have just left Shady Belle. When she’d tried suggesting that to Dutch, he’d looked at her like she was insane. They hadn’t gotten their big score yet. They still needed to hit the bank. She knew that it was still too hot in Saint Denis to do anything. That was why she had agreed to go along in the first place! She’d hoped she’d be able to stop something like this from happening. Dammit. Dammit it all!

* * *

Arthur brought Brigadier to a sliding stop. The horse whinnied in protest. He held onto the saddle horn tightly for a moment before getting to the ground. The ashes of a campfire marked where they had been. He kneeled down. There were six or seven men, based on the footprints. Several bottles littered the ground, along with a few cans. Hoofprints had the grass pressed deep into the dirt. He walked a little further and found a hole in the ground. Blood was scattered around the ground. Irish’s blood. He had no doubts about that. They’d stuck a post there and tied her to it. Beaten her. They had probably wanted information from her. Arthur shook his head. Even now, she would be loyal to a fault. She wouldn’t have told them anything that wasn’t common knowledge, not even to stop a beating. She was still alive, though. That was all that he needed to know.

He pushed himself to his feet again. This camp was from a few hours ago, at most. They kept moving. It wouldn’t be enough to get away from him. No, he would find them and he would make them all pay tenfold for whatever they had done to her. He was going to kill them all. He just had to find them, first. With all the help Charles had given him with tracking, he would be able to get to her. The thought of her bloodied and broken spurred Arthur to get back on Brigadier quickly.

The sun was falling fast. It would make it harder to track them, but if they stopped for the night that wouldn’t matter. Their fire would be a dead giveaway. He was coming. He was going to find her. He just needed her to hold on a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More cliffhangers! Have to do it. gotta keep you on your toes. It can't all be fluff all the time
> 
> Also Guarma content!


	12. Everything's All Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have arisen from a two day slumber to bring you chapter 12.

A gunshot was what woke Irish up on the second day. That and the shouting from all the men in the camp. She instinctively pulled away to hide. Instead, she was met with the sharp pain on the ropes on raw wrists. They’d given up on the posts and started tying her to a wagon. She didn’t care. No matter where they put her, it didn’t matter. Scar had found the knife in her boot. That hope, as futile and ill-placed as it had been, was gone. Maybe this gunfight would end in her death. Then, whoever was here to take her to Saint Denis wouldn’t get the satisfaction of turning her in alive. The people wouldn’t get the joy of seeing her swing. That was a good thought, even amidst all of the shit that came with it. It was the first happy thought she had had since she was taken from that saloon.

One of the bastards, one she’d taken to calling Patch due to his clothes, took cover near her. She had her head hung low. She had long since lost her will to escape. Still, the sound of guns reignited something within her. If it was another set of bounty hunters, she’d have a chance. Outlaws come to exact revenge? Well, she’d played one group of folks for fools anyway. Or maybe they’d played her. She could deal with outlaws, anyway. If it was a group like the Murfrees, she was screwed no matter what she did. This was the chance she had been too scared to hope for. Even with the hunter kneeling next to her, she began to struggle with her bindings with a renewed fervor.

“Irish!”

Her name rang through the field between the gunshots. It was a voice that was painfully familiar. Arthur Morgan. He’d come and found her. A million things ran through her head. She knew that she should’ve been angry at him for taking a risk like this, but she couldn’t find it in herself. He had come for her. She pulled fruitlessly at her ropes.

“Arthur!” She yelled back.

“Shut up!” Patch practically screamed, hitting her with the butt of his gun. “I gotta think!”

His companions were lying dead on the ground. Even Scar was staring lifelessly at the sky. Patch was cursing under his breath, trying to work out how to get out of this. His eyes met Irish’s. He pulled out a knife and cut her loose from the wagon. His grip was tight on her arm and the barrel of his gun was pressed to her temple. Patch forced Irish to her feet. Her head poked over the wagon and she got her first good look at Arthur in two days. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. His hat had been blown off in the firefight, showing dishevelled dirty brown hair in the wind. His eyes were filled with anger, but the look softened as he saw her there. He held up his pistol as Patch made Irish walk closer to Arthur. 

“Now, he-here’s how this is gonna go!” Patch yelled. Arthur didn’t lower his gun. “I’m gonna give you the girl and y-you are gonna let me walk outta here. P-put your gun down and I’ll-”

He never got to finish his thought. The bullet tore through his skull and Irish felt the grip on her arm tighten for only an instant before the hunter fell to the ground. Irish stood dumbfounded for a moment. Her ears were ringing. The only thing that was clear to her at all was Arthur standing there in front of her. Arthur was there. He was there. She started running to him. Irish practically launched herself into his arms. He held onto her tightly, his stubble tickling her neck and his breath warm on her skin. She took a deep breath of his scent. Oh, how she had missed that smell.

She collapsed into his arms. Tears were flowing freely and sobs wracked her body. She cried against his shirt. Arthur held onto her. He held on like he had thought he’d never see her again, never get the chance to do this again. Slowly, he lowered her to the ground. He promised not to leave her sight. He walked around the camp. Arthur made sure that all the men were dead. He picked up a few items. As he walked back to Irish, he was holding up her pistols triumphantly. She smiled. Arthur handed them back to her. She was glad to have the protection back. Arthur whistled for his horse. Brigadier ran towards them a few seconds later. Irish needed Arthur’s help to mount up. Her chest hurt. Now that the excitement had worn off, she was more aware of it. Arthur got up behind her.

Irish fell against his chest and closed her eyes. Between his soft voice in her ear and the steady movements of the horse, she could feel herself drifting off. They rode for a while before stopping at a camp that looked like it had been put up with haste. The Count was hitched to the pole of the tent. She almost wanted to reach out to him but felt too weak to do so. Arthur lifted her off the back of Brigadier and made Irish lay down on the cot. She watched him walk around the camp for a bit, lighting a fire and gathering a few things. He pulled a stool next to her bed. Arthur set down a small bowl full of water and dipped a cloth into it. She winced as he started wiping away the blood on her face. He apologised. She closed her eyes and let him continue. It hurt, but she knew it had to happen.

Arthur checked for other wounds with deft, experienced hands. “Well, it don’t seem like nothin’s broken. I, uh,” he coughed, “gotta check your ribs. Lift yer arms.”

She did as he asked. Arthur carefully untucked her shirt and pulled her suspenders from her shoulders. He rolled up her shirt above her stomach. She sucked in a breath as his fingers touched her sore skin. He apologised again. She looked to the side. After a moment of wiping off more blood, he pulled her shirt back down. Finally, he looked at her wrists. She got her own good look at them. 

The skin was raised, red, and irritated. Where the rope had been the most tight, there was more blood. She braced herself as Arthur cleaned and wrapped the wounds. The burning sensation hurt worse than the burns themselves but it slowly subsided. It seemed like that was the worst of it all. Finally, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and told her to sleep. He’d keep watch. She nodded weakly and did as he said, happy to let him keep her safe and remember how soft his lips had felt on her skin.

* * *

Irish laid on her side. Her hair fell around her face, barely covering her eyes from view. She could see the moon high in the sky. It was hard to believe it was the same moon she had always seen back home. It seemed more ominous now. She scoffed. No, it wasn’t the moon that was ominous on this island. It was everything here. Somehow they had managed to wind up on the only island along the coast that would have a vested interest in stopping the group. Arthur was right when he had said the gang’s luck had run out. She should have left long ago but she’d never been able to bring it on herself to do so. Hosea had always been her reason for staying. He’d always talked her out of it, brought her back down. The last few months, he’d stopped trying as hard, but he’d still tried. What would he think of her now?

Arthur was sitting just in front of her. His repeater was in his lap. It rested neatly. She felt safe with him watching over her. He had taken to sleeping in the same little hut that she was in shortly after they’d arrived in Guarma. She’d noticed him avoiding Dutch at all costs. She couldn’t exactly blame him. Arthur had seen the same things that she had. He had seen what Dutch’s ambitions had gotten Hosea. It seemed like that was what finally pulled Arthur over the edge. It had certainly taken away what little sanity Dutch had had left. His voice of reason was gone now. Arthur wouldn’t be enough to rein him in. Irish wasn’t certain that Arthur even wanted to rein Dutch in now.

Arthur turned to face Irish. He slid towards her and brushed the hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. “We’re gettin’ outta this, Irish. Even if it’s just you and me, we’re gonna go home. I’ll protect ya.”

“And I’ll do the same for you. I don’t care who from.” She shot a pointed glance in Dutch’s direction.

The older man was muttering something to himself in the heat, moving his arms back and forth every now and then like he was giving one of his old speeches. Irish’s expression was grim as she watched him walk back and forth. She reached for Arthur’s hand. He was a comfort that she didn’t know she’d needed. For all she knew, Arthur was the only true friend that she had left. That was going to have to be enough to get her through this time. It just had to be.

* * *

Arthur watched as Irish slept. It was the most peaceful he had seen her be in a long time. He was a little surprised, considering all that she had just gone through. She was bruised, beaten, and a little bloodied, but she was still herself. He hesitantly reached out and brushed her hair behind her ear. She stirred a little, muttering something in her sleep before settling back in. Arthur smiled softly and brought the blanket closer to her shoulders. The air was quickly getting colder out here. He got up and placed another log on the fire before going back to his stool next to her. He didn’t want to take his eyes off of her for more than a moment. She was alive. How could he ask for more now?

He took one of her hands in his own. He gently turned it over. Compared to his big, rough hand, hers seemed so small, so delicate. It was hard to believe that she had stolen, killed, and hurt with those hands. It was arguable she had done more of that than even Arthur had. He envied the light that she had kept in her eyes. She hadn’t let herself be disillusioned by the world, somehow. She had told him it was because she always had something to fight for. Their way of life was dying, sure, but she would die with it. Arthur couldn’t carry the same sentiment. 

Irish had been there during the roughest points in his life with the gang. She was always there to lend an ear or drink to those who needed it. She took him out when Mary first left. She’d gone with Dutch on a long trip after Annabelle was killed, and then again with Hosea after Bessie. When Arthur had come back, telling her that Eliza was pregnant, she was the one who went with him to see Isaac for the first time. When he’d come back too early from one of his visits, she’d held onto him while he let out the last of the grief he had to give. Even when John left, she had taken over Jack from Abigail while she grieved. All of that darkness, all of that bad, and Irish had been there to light up the world for the rest of the gang. How did she have any of that light left for herself? Would it still be there after this?

God, he hoped so. If it wasn’t, he would do whatever it took to bring it back. He would always do what it took to bring her back to him. He had to. It was more than just owing her his life. He wanted to give his life to her. However much time he had left was hers. That was what he wanted to tell her that day in Blue Banks. It was even more true now. He brought her knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her hand. He was going to be right there when she woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He has found his girl and you can bet your ass he's not letting this shit happen again.


	13. **Can We Kiss Forever?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time has come. This chapter is SO not safe for work.

Irish’s eyes fluttered open. The sun was hanging low. It spilled out its beautiful colours across the vast blue sky, mixing with the clouds and making the world a little brighter for a little while longer. Everything still looked a little… foggy to her, like it was all blurring into one image. She blinked a few times to get rid of the feeling. The light made her head pound. She held her hand up to her forehead, covering her eyes. She let out a loud groan as she moved her arm. Everything hurt. Even just groaning made her ribs ache. Arthur was next to her in an instant, asking how she felt and what hurt. She replied with a quick ‘everything’ and groaned again.

She felt like tenderised meat. Worse than tenderised meat. Awful. The word she was looking for was awful. Even that didn’t feel like quite enough to describe the feeling. Arthur passed her a cup of water. She was quick to finish the whole thing. He poured another cup with a soft smile. She drank much slower this time, taking small sips. It made her feel a little bit better. She really wanted some whiskey or gin, but she had a feeling that it wouldn’t go down too well at the moment.

“How long was I sleepin’?” She asked. Her voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar.

“‘Bout 12 hours, I’d say. You needed it, too. You should eat somethin’, Irish.”

He placed a metal plate with some obscure meat, probably rabbit or a bird, next to her on the cot. She slowly sat up. Her head was throbbing. She leaned forward a little with her eyes closed. Arthur rubbed her back and held up the food again. Irish chuckled a little and took a bite. It wasn’t any better than her own cooking, but it was food. She hadn’t eaten anything other than the few scraps allowed to her by the bounty hunters. It was always just enough to keep her alive for however long they were going to be on the road. She was famished. Arthur made her pace herself, but she got enough to eat. 

“How’d you find me, Arthur?” she asked between bites.

“Saloon owner, Seamus? He told me you was taken by some men, laid a poster down on the bar and left it there. Said you went with ‘em quietly. It had been a couple hours, but I couldn’t… you’re my family, Irish. You’re more than that. I’m just sorry it took so long to get there.”

She smiled. “Don’t worry ‘bout that. I’m still alive, right? Maybe with a few cracked ribs, but alive nonetheless. You kept your end of the deal. You kept me safe. Reckon we’re even now, too.”

Irish rested her hands on her knees and stared at the ground. She didn’t know why she was saying it like that. Maybe it was her way of protecting herself. Arthur had risked so much to come and get her. She didn’t want him to get hurt for her. It was painful to think about. She kept on seeing him bleeding out in the cave. The quiet sounds of his pain. If that happened again, and if it happened because of her… she didn’t know what she’d do. It would weigh on her heavily. It scared her. All she wanted to do was promise him that she was fine and thank him in more ways than she’d ever be able to. Arthur kneeled in front of her, taking her hands in his own. She looked at him. Oh, she hadn’t realised just how much she had missed looking at him. He was so beautiful, in more ways than he would ever know. 

“Irish, this ain’t about that, or… or payin’ you back for what you did on the mountain. You… Irish, I…”

Arthur struggled for a moment more before he leaned forward, grabbing her face as softly as he could to bring her into a kiss.

It was rough and painful for more reasons than one. Arthur had miscalculated just how close he really was to Irish and it started with their teeth banging against each other. Irish still had some healing bruises that he’d managed to put the pressure of his fingertips on without really meaning to. But none of that mattered. What she cared about was just how soft his lips were against hers, the feeling of her heart swelling as she realised this was what she had wanted for so, so long. He tasted like tobacco and coffee mixed with just a little bit of mint. It was a strange combination that shouldn’t have gone together the way that it did, but to Irish it was intoxicating. She had her hands hanging loosely off of his wrists, keeping him in place. She moved one hand into his hair. It was impossibly soft, considering all that he had gone through the last couple of days. 

She never wanted it to end. Arthur pulled away first, resting his forehead against hers. She couldn’t stop the smile forming. She kept running her fingers through his hair, keeping him close.

“Took ya long enough,” Irish joked.

“Someone had to go and get kidnapped ‘fore I could confess.”

“Let me make it up to you, then.”

Irish kissed Arthur again. It was filled with more hunger, more need to be closer to each other. She was able to ignore the pain in her side as she pulled him closer to her. She moved until he was comfortably between her legs with his chest was flush against hers and she was able to freely explore what little skin he already had exposed. Her fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one. Arthur sucked in a breath as her fingers brushed against his chest. She pushed his suspenders from his shoulders, untucking his shirt from his jeans. She looked at his toned chest, taking a deep breath of her own.

She had thought about this moment more times than she cared to admit - so much so that she wasn’t going to let a few bruises stop her now. Arthur ran his hand through her hair and kissed her. He gripped her hair lightly and pulled her head back. The little gasp she gave was the only permission that he needed to slip his tongue into her mouth. Irish moaned softly. Arthur had one hand on her waist, fingers digging into her shirt.

He pulled away again. “Irish, you don’t have t-”

She shut him up with a kiss, moving herself forward with more force than she intended. She ended up on top of him in the grass. She could feel his bulge through his jeans. She was growing wet at the thought of him being inside of her. “If I didn’t want to do this, I wouldn’t be doin’ it. I want you, Arthur.”

“You asked for it,” he said deviously.

It didn’t take too long for him to have her flipped onto her back, holding her forearms, careful to avoid her bandaged wrists, to keep her in place while he moved to kiss along her neck. His stubble brushed roughly, sweetly, against her skin. She struggled halfheartedly against his grip. He moved his knee to rest between her legs, stopping right at her center. She was aching for some kind of friction, some relief. Irish wasn’t one to give up power easily, but with Arthur’s carefully placed love bites and hands moving across her body, she couldn’t help but submit to him. At least this once.

Arthur moved his hand down her side, stopping on her hips for a moment before unclipping her suspenders. She bit her lip to suppress a moan as his fingers dipped between her legs. She was increasingly aware of just how long it had really been since she’d done something like this. He put on just enough pressure to leave her wanting more, sending shivers down her spine as she moaned softly. He kissed her again. He made quick work of her gun belt, tossing it towards the cot. Irish whined softly as Arthur withdrew his hand. He chuckled and unbuttoned her shirt, drawing it over her shoulders. He took one of her breasts in his hand and tweaked her nipple. Her back arched. Arthur took the opportunity to roughly pull down her jeans and undergarments in one swift motion.

He gripped her knees, keeping Irish’s legs apart as his lips made their way down her body. He lingered on her chest, her stomach, her hips, every inch of exposed skin for as long as he could before he reached her inner thighs. Arthur moved to her core, licking one long stripe. Irish arched her back again, stifling a moan into her hand. She inadvertently pushed her hips closer to Arthur, earning her a chuckle. He continued his attentions to her clit, silently pushing a finger inside of her.

“Arthur…” she moaned out. “I’m close.”

He slipped another finger inside, moving them back and forth and stretching her out. Her legs were trembling as he continued. Arthur reached up with his other hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. Irish’s grip tightened. Her hips twitched as she came. He worked her through her orgasm, slowly pumping his fingers in and out of her. Irish was breathing heavily.

Arthur made his way back up, wiping her slick off of his face. Irish reached for the waistband of his jeans, pulling him closer between her legs as he kissed her. She fumbled with his belt for a moment, but eventually got it free. She tossed it to the side and started tugging his pants down.

“No union suit?” she quipped.

“No time for one.”

She grinned. Arthur stroked himself once as he lined himself up with her entrance. He slid himself inside easily, slowly. He stretched her in all the perfect ways. Irish closed her eyes and moaned. She was still sensitive from her first orgasm and Arthur was intoxicating. He groaned softly when he was fully sheathed. She snaked her arms around his neck and brought him down for another kiss. 

“You good, darlin’?” he asked.

Irish nodded, locking her ankles around his back and encouraging him to move. He started moving slowly at first, but it wasn’t enough for either of them. Arthur growled lightly and started moving faster, burying his face in her neck. His low moans were in her ear, breath hot against her skin. She dragged her nails down his back. She raised her hips slightly. It was the perfect angle. He went in deeper, cursing under his breath. She could feel a second wave coming over her. He moved faster, thrusting roughly against her. Irish smiled as she thought about how she’d probably have grass stains on the back of her shirt.

She chased that feeling overwhelming her. The second time she came was more intense than the first. Irish cried out his name. He shuddered, his hips trembling as he bit into her shoulder softly. He thrust a couple more times before pulling out, spilling onto the ground and her thighs. He rolled to his side, breathing heavily. She rested her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slowing down. After a few moments, he helped clean her up, buttoning up her shirt and moving her back to the cot.

“Thank you for that,” she chuckled.

“My pleasure.”

“You called me darlin’.”

“Is that a problem?”

Irish thought about it for a moment. It was time to let go of that piece of her past now. “Not anymore.”

He put on his jeans and sat next to her. “We gotta make a plan about gettin’ outta here.”

“I know.”

“Any thoughts?”

“North, I guess, for now.”

“North it is, but I ain’t movin’ you from this camp for a couple days, Irish. Even doin’ what we just did… I enjoyed it, but I ain’t sure it was a good idea.”

“Probably not, but it was worth it.”

Arthur grabbed her hands, placing gentle kisses to her wrists before taking off the bandages. The burns didn’t look any better in the light. Arthur rubbed in some ointment as softly as he could, but she still winced. She leaned her head against Arthur’s shoulder and closed her eyes. He rubbed circles into her side. Irish smiled, content.

She looked at Arthur, really looked at him for probably the first time in her life. She noticed the soft, prominent wrinkles along his eyes, showing just how happy he had been despite all of the bad in his life. The scar on his chin where the hair of his beard refused to grow. She couldn’t remember how he had gotten it, but she could remember Susan and Bessie treating it. His blue-green eyes were open slightly, staring at the sky with a content look on his face. He really was a handsome man. She supposed that he always had been, but it was never really something she had noticed before now. He seemed so different to her now, yet also exactly the same. She could finally understand just how things had been changing for all of that time and why she had been so willing to die to save him. He was more than family. He was… well, she didn’t have the words to describe it yet, but she knew that he was worth it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, it finally happened. You've survived 13 chapters of this story and it's finally paid off. They're finally together. The slow burn has come to an end and now it's just full on romance novel time, folks.


	14. Let Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a job now! I'm mostly writing on my days off, but I'm still hoping to keep updates within a few days of each other. Like this one. Yep. Enjoy!

Arthur was serious about keeping Irish in camp. He didn’t let her off of the cot for an entire day, barely agreeing to let her sit up and read. He kept himself busy chopping some firewood and feeding the horses. Irish hated every second of it. Being useless around camp wasn’t her idea of relaxing. It only made her more frustrated. Regardless, she understood that she couldn’t overexert herself. Her wrists, especially, were in bad shape. The burns were healing rather well thanks to whatever ointment Arthur had. They still hurt if she moved too much, but that was slowly going away, too. She reckoned that in another week, she’d be left with just nasty scars to remind her of her encounter. Another one to add to her collection. She could at least chuckle at that thought. She couldn’t even remember where she had gotten most of the light, raised markings that criss-crossed her skin, but this was one that she would certainly be unable to forget.

Irish pushed herself to her feet, brushing her hands on her jeans and stretching. She didn’t want to stay here at this campsite anymore. She didn’t like being in the open for as long as they had and, especially given the events of the past week, she was paranoid that someone would find them. The bodies of those bounty hunters wouldn’t go undiscovered. Eventually, someone was going to find them and start asking questions. Irish doubted that she and Arthur would have the luxury of people believing they were dead for much longer. She walked over to the horses, patting the Count on the nose. He nickered softly, pressing his head into her hand. She laughed softly. 

“Hey there, boy. You wanna head out soon too, huh?” she whispered. “Guess I’ll have to have a chat with Arthur about that. Behave yourself, boy.”

She stepped away with another pat on his neck. Irish stretched again. It felt like she hadn’t moved at all in days. She walked around the camp a few times, just getting used to being up and about. She had a bad feeling that Arthur would be carrying her back to bed, and not for a good time, when he got back from hunting. She just enjoyed moving. Irish would talk to him about finding a different camp. The Count seemed relatively calm, even in terms of how he usually was. If she couldn’t handle the reins, she’d just ride with Arthur. The only thing that she wanted to do was move and keep moving until they were safe. However long that took.

She ran her fingers through her hair. What kind of mess were they really in? Surely the higher ups of the Pinkerton Detective Agency wouldn’t be able to afford to send agents after two people that were probably dead, right? Especially not since Cornwall wasn’t there to throw money at them anymore. That was the only good thing Irish could think of that had come from Dutch’s plan to make noise. The Pinkertons, without Milton’s obsession with Dutch, had no reason really to come after the entire gang. They would have to be focused on cleaning up whatever remained of the gangs near the cities, right? She and Arthur were good at staying quiet and avoiding the “noise”. She started pacing, chewing her fingernails as she thought through everything.

Arthur came back less than an hour later with several squirrels and rabbits hanging from his belt. He didn’t look too happy to see Irish walking, but she didn’t care. Instead, she got to work skinning the animals that he had found and trying to figure out how to broach the topic of moving with him. She had half of her argument worked out when he spoke.

“Well, since you’re obviously feelin’ better, we should get a move on. This campsite is still a little too close to Blue Banks for my likin’. Too open. Think you can handle ridin’?”

“Ridin’ what, cowboy?” she joked, poking his side playfully. Arthur’s cheeks flushed red. “I’m just messin’ with ya. Yeah, I’ll be all right. If it comes down to it, you don’t mind an extra passenger, do you?”

He chuckled a little. “If you’re the passenger, I don’t mind.”

Irish leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “We’d better start packin’ up then, as well as cook some of that meat for the road.”

“No, I’ll take care of all that. You don’t-”

“You don’t have to take care of everythin’ and coddle me, Arthur Morgan. I ain’t one of them high society city girls and you know I ain’t never been the type to let others do all the work, regardless of my condition. You can start tearin’ down camp and I’ll get to cookin’ some squirrel over the fire. No arguin’, sir, not with me. Get to it.”

She clapped her hands together twice for emphasis. It dawned on her, watching Arthur packing up the tent and bedrolls, that she was turning into another Susan Grimshaw. Maybe more of that woman had rubbed off on Irish than she had thought before. It made her smile. She had hated being constantly told what to do and how when Susan was in camp, but those memories now brought her joy. Those were the good times. The best of times, really. It was funny how much she hadn’t realised that she was taking for granted. Pearson’s cooking (even if it was always stew), Hosea’s conversations (which were usually about whatever book he’d picked up in town), and even the soft, distorted music the Dutch would play on quiet nights in camp.

It was Hosea who had taught Irish to dance in the first place. Dutch had been playing something from _Carmen_ , an opera of some sort that Irish had never seen or even heard of. Dutch was dancing with Annabelle, holding her close, and Arthur was with Mary. It must have been right after he’d proposed, too, because they hadn’t fought once the whole night. Irish was sitting alone by her tent, making some arrows, when Hosea held out his hand to her. He had been a good teacher. By the end of the song, she could at least stay in step with him without stepping on his feet.

She let herself get lost in her thoughts while roasting the rabbit legs and squirrel meat, waiting patiently for Arthur to finish putting everything on the horses. When he was ready, she poured water over the dying fire and kicked the coals apart, knocking some dirt over it as well for good measure. He helped her up onto the Count’s back.She took a tight grip of the reins. Irish shook her wrists out a couple of times when the burns started to feel sore or itch. She nodded to Arthur and they started off at a slow pace.

Arthur would stop every few miles to check her wrists and make sure that she was doing all right. It was annoying, but sweet, so she let him continue. She had acted in a similar way while they were in the cave, after all. Add that to the fact that they couldn’t be sure when the next time they would be near a town, and she knew he needed the peace of mind. The couple stuck to back roads. They avoided people, barely even nodding in acknowledgment of those sharing the trails. It was still enough of an interaction to send Irish’s anxiety skyrocketing. She never wanted to go through something like that again. In 12 years, that was somehow her first real encounter with bounty hunters. Well, her first encounter by herself. She was still trying to figure out how to thank Arthur for saving her life.

Irish shivered. The sun was hanging low in the sky, taking the heat of the day with it. That was the only good thing she could remember about the south. It was almost always warm, even at night. She reached into one of the bags and pulled out a long wool coat. She didn’t want to raise a fuss and have Arthur stop for the night. They weren’t nearly far enough away from their previous camp. 

As they kept riding, it kept getting colder and Irish couldn’t help but wonder just what month it actually was. She hadn’t been keeping track since before the group had found Colter. She started running through it to pass the time.

Colter had been in May. They’d stayed there for a few weeks while the thaw came in, then they went to Horseshoe Overlook. Two months later, Sean had been killed in Rhodes. Another month later, Kieran was killed by O’Driscolls, and then one more when Hosea and Lenny died. Guarma had been a week, tops. That meant that it could only have been a month and a half since her family had fallen apart. It was funny to think how easy it was to dismantle something that had taken over a decade to build. 

If her numbers were right, it was late November now. The further north that she and Arthur got, the colder it would get. They needed to find someplace where they could lie low. Preferably somewhere with four walls and a roof, if at all possible. A canvas tent wouldn’t keep out the cold well enough, even if they did keep a fire going the whole night. 

“You thinkin’ what I am?” Arthur called back.

“Depends on your train of thought.”

“First snow’s on it’s way. We ain’t down south no more. We need shelter.”

“In that case, yes, I was just thinkin’ exactly that.”

“I saw a cabin, couple of miles back. We could head back that way, see if it’s empty or if the folk there could help, at least.”

“Good idea. I’d prefer it if we could get a little farther away from that whole mess, but we can’t have everythin’. C’mon, lead the way then, cowboy.”

She smiled as Arthur grumbled something under his breath. He moved Brigadier in front of the Count and they started walking again. Irish kept her horse as close to his as she could. The darkness was closing in around them. Arthur expertly led them back to the cabin he had been talking about. There were no lights in the windows. The curtains were open, holes visible from where moths had gotten ahold of them. Arthur glanced back at Irish and she nodded. She kept one hand on her pistol while he dismounted, going up and knocking on the door. There was no answer. He knocked a couple more times, calling out quietly. Satisfied that no one was coming to the door, he pushed it open. They were lucky that it hadn’t been locked. Irish hadn’t seen a lock breaker with their things. She hitched the Count and Brigadier nearby before she went into the cabin.

It was a small building, really, just one room, but the walls were secure. A full-sized bed sat in one corner of the room with an open and empty chest in front of it. The fireplace looked like it hadn’t been used in months. Irish walked over and straightened out a chair. In terms of places to be, this wasn’t the worst. She ran her finger over the table, revealing just how much dust had really settled there. If this had ever belonged to someone, they were long gone. She put her hands on her hips and nodded.

“All right then. Let’s channel Grimshaw and Pearson and get to work makin’ this place a home. Mr. Morgan?” She turned and smiled. “Let’s get to it.”

* * *

Arthur grinned as he looked out over the camp. Irish had really come through with that tip about the train. Irish fit in well enough with the group, but he wasn’t sure that a party like this was exactly what she had been expecting. She was leaning against a tree away from all of the noise. More specifically, a very drunk Javier and an even more drunk John who were taking turns twirling each other while Dutch’s gramophone played some song Arthur didn’t know the name of. She had a scowl on her face and a drink in her hand. She had been with them for maybe a month now. She was friendly with the group, but he wasn’t sure that he had ever seen Irish make a real effort to speak to anyone other than Dutch or himself.

Dutch was holding Annabelle close, occasionally bringing her in close to his chest and whispering something that made her giggle like a schoolgirl. Hosea and Bessie were off in their own world. It was peaceful, seeing those two together. It gave Arthur hope that he and Mary were going to make it, but she was off somewhere with her family for now. Surely she wouldn’t mind if he asked Irish for just one dance.

He pushed himself to his feet and took another sip of his beer. making his way to Irish. Before he could get to her, Annabelle was there, pulling Irish into the fray as the song turned into something much more lively. Irish protested, insisting that she liked her tree but Annabelle wasn’t having any of it. Arthur chuckled as Annabelle twirled Irish around. The younger woman stumbled a little, out of Annabelle’s grasp and fell directly into Dutch’s arms. Dutch let out a hearty laugh.

“If you wanted to dance, Miss Hammond, you could’ve asked. I’m sure Annabelle can spare me for one song, can’t you, my love?” Dutch was grinning.

Annabelle shrugged. “I guess just this once.” She walked to Arthur. “I guess you’re my partner now, Arthur. C’mon!”

Annabelle brought him into the same group of increasingly rowdy people. Arthur shook his head but he couldn’t hide his smile. He put his hand on Annabellele’s waist and started swaying. In this light, her hair was even darker, but her blue eyes still shone with their usual mischievous glint. She glanced at Irish and then back to Arthur.

“So, what d’you think of our newest recruit, Mr. Morgan?” Annabelle asked quietly.

“I think she’s got a lot of potential. And what about you, Mrs. Van der Linde? What’s your take on her?”

“It ain’t missus yet,” she chuckled. Annabelle pondered the question for a moment and took a deep breath. “I think she’s hurtin’ real bad. There’s a lot of pain in those eyes. We’ll be good for that girl. I think she’ll be good for us, too. Take care of her, Arthur. All you boys. She’ll do the same for us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annabelle (Annabel?) has arrived! I kinda hope if they ever do make RDR3, it's from her perspective (mostly so that they can keep on killing of their main characters within canon) and also because wouldn't a badass female outlaw just be like... badass? At the same time, the guy who planned RDR1 and 2 has left R*, so maybe they shouldn't make a third.


	15. **Kiss From a Rose**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a new computer! Mostly for school, but you can bet your ass that I'm using it for writing now. It's so nice. Anyway, have a chapter. You've earned it.

Irish knelt by the fire, rubbing her fingers together and trying to find some kid of warmth inside the small cabin. The snow had set in a few days after they’d gotten settled in. It had only stopped coming down recently. Irish had been attempting to keep the fire going nonstop since then. Arthur was out chopping some more firewood. She pulled a blanket closer around her shoulders and lit a cigarette. It was warmer than the mining houses in Colter, that much was certain. She took a long drag, letting the smoke warm her lungs for half a second before it swirled through the air around her. The warmth only ever lasted for a few seconds, but she loved it anyway. It was better than the burning sensation of the alcohol, which they were running out of anyway.

Arthur came in through the door, a pile of wood under one arm and the axe in his other. He dropped them both to the floor. He was shivering. Irish opened the blanket and he crawled under it with her. She made him pull off his jacket and put it by the fire. The less snow under the blanket, the better. She took his hands in her own, rubbing them together, occasionally blowing air over his fingers. Slowly, he started to get warmer, but he was still shivering. Irish moved from under the blankets and found some more, dropping those over his shoulders, too.

“Thanks, darlin’,” Arthur said quietly.

“Well, can’t have you freezin’ to death on me, Morgan. Like ya too much for that.”

“‘Preciate it.”

He grabbed her wrist as she walked past and pulled her into his lap, his face resting comfortably in the crook of her neck. She shivered a little. He was still cold. She twisted until she was facing him and brought him in for a kiss. Arthur grunted in approval. He ran his hands up and down her back, deepening the kiss. He twisted his fingers into her hair, gently pulling her head back. She stayed straddling him. Her fingertips ghosted on his cheeks, brushing through his beard. He had let it grow out to combat the cold. Irish loved it. She pulled away and rested her forehead against Arthur’s with a smile.

She kissed the tip of his nose. He hummed. 

“Feelin’ warmer, Mr. Morgan?” she asked.

“I’m gettin’ there. Might need a little more help.”

She unbuttoned his shirt half way, pressing her hand against his chest. She could feel her warmth seeping into him. He shuddered, but she knew it wasn’t from the cold this time. Irish kissed his neck. She moved over across his jaw, down to his collarbone, leaving little love bites along the way. Arthur leaned back in the chair, letting her do as she wished. Irish fully intended to take advantage of that. She continued her path downwards, kissing as much exposed skin as she could get to. She reached down to his belt, toying with it for a moment before undoing the buckle. Arthur eyed her curiously as she continued. Her hand brushed against his hardening length, making him suck in a breath. She moved her lips back to his, palming him through his jeans. He involuntarily bucked his hips into her hand. 

Irish let a smirk cross her face as she reached into his pants, messing with the bottom button of his union suit for a moment before she could get to his length. Arthur was quick to bring her into a deeper kiss while she stroked him. His tongue darted against hers. She squeezed gently, making him take another sharp breath. 

She slid down off his lap, face to face with his crotch. Arthur licked his bottom lip. He knew exactly what it was that she had planned and he had no intention of stopping her now. She got his jeans down past his knees. She reached into his union suit and pulled out his half-erect cock. The sight made her mouth water. Irish wrapped her hand around his dick. His hand was on the back of her head. She started to pump slowly. Agonizingly slowly, if the annoyed look on Arthur’s face was anything to go by. By the time she was about fed up with the teasing herself, the pink head of his cock was standing to full attention. A sheer layer of precum was leaking from the tip.

Irish licked her lips and looked up at Arthur. He was leaning his head back. His other hand was resting over his eyes. His chest was moving quickly. It was just how she wanted him to be.

With one hand on his shaft, she took him into her mouth. Even with her hand around the base, she could barely get her mouth around him completely. Arthur let out a shuddering breath, a soft growl following. She stayed still for a moment. Irish got a taste for the salty precum, letting her jaw loosen more around him so he could sink in deeper. He was less than halfway when she gagged. She backed off a little, letting herself catch her breath before continuing.

She ran her tongue around his slit. She bobbed her head back and forth twice before moving off of it completely. She gave a probing lick from shaft to tip. Arthur’s other hand moved into her hair, showing just how little self control he had left. She let him push her down onto his cock. Her hand stopped him from pushing her too far. She waited for a little before she moved again. She was pumping him with one hand, setting the pace. Irish hollowed her cheeks to take in more of his dick. A low moan escaped Arthur’s lips. He bucked into her mouth, hitting the back of her throat with his head. She opened her eyes and looked at him through her lashes.

He was close. She could see it all over his face. She hollowed her cheeks again and took as much of him as she could. Her free hand massaged his balls until he let out one more loud moan. His cum filled her mouth. It slid down her throat, warm and salty. She swallowed it all and backed away from him. She wiped her mouth. Arthur was breathing heavily. His head was still leaned back. 

Arthur grabbed her shoulders and brought her in for a kiss. “That did it, darlin’, thank you.”

“You needed it, I think. You haven’t relaxed in weeks.”

“Haven’t had the time for it.”

“I know. That’s why I wanted to take care of you, at least for a moment.”

“You been taken care of me for three months, girlie, don’t get that wrong. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“And so would I.”

She rested her hand on his cheek. He looked at her with affection. She could have gotten lost in his blue-green eyes. It reminded her of the only good part of Guarma - looking out at the sea and seeing just how beautiful it really was. She brushed her fingers through his hair, moving it away from his face. Even here, amidst the dust and snow, he was striking. Perhaps even moreso. The look in her eyes softened.

“You really are a beautiful man, Arthur.” Irish’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Ah, you’re just sayin’ that.”

“No, I’m not. You’re handsome. Always have been.”

He looked down at the ground, not saying anything. She wrapped her arms around him. Irish brought him into a warm hug, keeping him close. She knew how he thought about himself. She had heard the self-deprecating jokes and comments for years. Whenever anyone had tried to say otherwise, he would laugh it off. She wanted him to know just how wrong he really was. 

“How did I get so lucky to get you, Irish?” he whispered.

“Funny, I was about to ask the same question.” She kissed him again. “My lord, it is cold. Reminds me of Colter and not in a good way.”

“Was there anythin’ good about Colter?” Arthur chuckled.

“Hm. Let me think on that for a moment.” She closed her eyes. “Hosea got to finish that book he was readin’, what was it? _The Aeneid_. He’d been trying to get through it for months, but Dutch was always sendin’ him out. Shot some O’Driscolls, which is always good. Found Kieran.”

Arthur chuckled again. “Y’know, back then, you told me ‘bout Dutch. I shoulda listened to you.”

“You can’t blame yourself for somethin’ like that. Even I stopped believin’ all of that for a while after Colter. I was just… I dunno, scared.”

“And you shoulda been. You saw it before the rest of us and you stayed. Why?”

“‘Cos I… I couldn’t leave all you behind like that. Even if it was dysfunctional, it was still my family. I still cared. I thought… I hoped that I’d be able to bring Dutch to his senses, or that you or Hosea’d do it.” She shivered a little. “I shoulda shot Micah a helluva lot sooner than I did.”

“C’mon, darlin’, let’s get you to bed. You’re shakin’ like a leaf.”

He draped the blanket over her shoulders and escorted her to the bed. Irish held out her arms. Arthur climbed into bed with her. He rested his head on her chest. She ran her fingers through his hair again. It was getting long. Next time they were in town, she’d take him to a barber. It wasn’t the worst thing. She liked being able to twist her fingers through it. He hummed again. He wrapped his arms around her waist, keeping her close. She liked it. She liked being able to be that close to him. There weren’t enough words in the world to describe how Arthur made her feel. Even in this dank, awful cabin. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, once again whispering to him her mother’s good luck charm.

“You’ve done that before,” Arthur said. “I thought it was a dream, if I’m bein’ honest with ya. When we was still in the cave.”

“That was the day I left to get you that medicine for your fever. I wanted to make sure that you was safe while I was gone. It just made me feel better, I guess.”

“Where’d you learn it, anyhow?”

“My mama taught me. I was real young, no older than four or five, but she had to leave and find work. Every time she left, she’d give me a kiss on the forehead and whisper that to me, tellin’ me it was a good luck charm to keep me safe while we was apart.”

“I ain’t ever really heard you talk about your family before.”

“What’s there to know? My daddy, if you could even call him that, left before I was born. I wasn’t even sure he knew I existed until we got a letter from him, tellin’ my mother to leave him alone and stop sendin’ letters. That broke her heart. She died about a month later and I was sent to the orphanage in the town where you boys picked me up.”

“I guess orphans would be the only people foolish enough to fall in with a gang of outlaws.”

“Just desperate. Not necessarily foolish. We all woulda died or been caught and killed if Dutch hadn’t taken us in. That ain’t that foolish.”  
“Still feel like a fool.”

“Yeah, me too.” Irish leaned down further into the bed. Arthur kept his grip tight around her waist. She didn’t complain. She continued stroking his hair, moving her hand in a steady rhythm. He hummed softly under her touch. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight. She knew this feeling. It was rare in her life, but she had felt it before. To her, he had always been more than the simple outlaw that others saw him as. He was more than the fool he thought himself to be. Especially now, it was like she was standing on a ledge, arms outstretched, waiting to fall. There was no hesitation. She was falling at a breakneck speed. It didn’t scare her like it had in the past. She wanted this. It was the most she had allowed herself to want something in years because for the first time in years, she wasn’t scared that someone was going to take it away. There, in that cabin, it was just them. The rest of the world didn’t exist. It didn’t matter. “Arthur, I… I think I’m fallin’ in love with you, Mr. Morgan.”

He was silent for a long time and Irish was starting to curse herself for speaking out loud. Arthur sat up in bed and pulled her onto his chest. He placed one hand on her cheek. A soft look filled his eyes as he regarded her now. His thumb traced circles on her skin. 

“Ditto.”

Irish started laughing, playfully hitting Arthur’s chest before moving to get out of bed. He grabbed her and pulled her close. He flipped her onto her back, pinning her to the mattress with his body weight.

“Ditto?” She laughed again. “I’m confessin’ my love and you say ‘ditto’?”

“I ain’t good with words. Never have been, ‘least not when I’m speakin’. And when it comes to love? Well, I’m even worse. Irish, you mean more to me than anythin’ else in this whole world.” One of his hands ran down her side, ghosting above the skin. Irish could barely feel his touch but she knew that it was there. “If I had all the time in the world, I’d spend it all showin’ you that.”

“You call that bad with words?” she joked.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Dangerous words, darlin’.”

“I’ve got a price on my head in three states, cowboy. I’m no stranger to dangerous things.”

Arthur leaned down and kissed Irish. Her hand came to rest on his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady. Irish had long since lost count of how many times Arthur had kissed her, but one thing was always certain - she would always come away breathless, her heart fluttering. Every kiss took hold of her sense, flooding her mind with the scent of tobacco and the taste of smoke and coffee. Irish always wanted to commit those things to memory, but nothing would ever beat the actual thing, A part of her still didn’t fully believe that all of this was real and that he was all hers, but as she felt his hand slip under her shirt, exploring the skin of her stomach with calloused hands, she knew that it was true. 

Clothes were thrown from the bed haphazardly. They didn’t want to take their time now. They needed each other. The need to be close had overtaken everything else. Irish couldn’t even feel the cold air as Arthur lifted the blankets to find a place with her, the heat from her stomach rising to spread throughout her entire body.

No time was wasted on ceremony or foreplay. Without warning, he was buried deep inside of her. Irish’s back arched. Her breasts pressed into the bare skin of Arthur’s chest, adding just the right amount of sensation against her nipples as she adjusted to his size. She squeezed his arm to let him know she was ready and he started moving. Arthur wrapped one arm under her back, keeping her close to him as he set a rough, hard pace. He whispered sweet words in her ear. She moaned into his. 

The moment didn’t last long enough and yet was perfect all at the same time. She felt waves of pleasure crest over her whole body. Her hips spasmed against Arthur’s. His thrusting became more and more erratic. He let out a loud grunt as he came. His body fell on top of Irish’s. It was a comfortable weight. He moved after a couple of moments, pulling her close to him once more. She brought the blankets up to their chins and closed her eyes. These were the moments that she wanted to have forever.

“By the way, Irish, I’m fallin’ for you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're in love!


	16. Everything Stays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domestic fluff is best fluff.

Arthur’s pencil moved across the paper. Irish stretched and rolled a little ways away from him. He made some kind of noise of protest and she moved back. His journal was propped up on his knees. She looked up at him. He was concentrating on whatever it was he was doing. She usually only saw that look on his face when he was in the middle of a firefight. It looked so much better when he was peaceful. She reached up and gently brushed her fingers along his jaw. He chuckled a little but didn’t look away from his journal.

“Whatcha doin’ there, cowboy?” she asked groggily. “Writin’ a short story?”

“Somethin’ like that.” he responded.

“Liar. You gonna show me?”

“Probably not.”

“What if I bribe ya?”

“With what?”

“Let me think on that while I look at your journal.”

Arthur sighed heavily and lowered his legs, pulling Irish into his lap. He held his journal up for her. Spread across two pages was a sketch of Irish as she slept. It was mostly done except for a couple of places he had been shading. Irish smiled. It was something that she knew meant a lot to him. He was always drawing or writing something down. Even if this was the only thing she was going to see from it, it made her happy. Arthur nuzzled against her neck. His beard tickled her. She leaned back on the bed and closed her eyes again. It was a good morning. They didn’t have to do anything and while there was still snow on the ground, they didn’t have to worry about someone following them. 

For a moment, Irish let herself imagine the two of them living a life like this. A simple life where it was just the two of them. They didn’t have to worry about their pasts or the price on their heads. They would have more mornings like this before they’d get up and work to keep their lives simple. Just the two of them. That was the important part in the end, really, that they were together. She nuzzled closer to Arthur. All she wanted was to stay like this. Unfortunately, it was still winter and they couldn’t just stay in bed all day.

She rolled out of bed and found one of their coats. It was Arthur’s warm blue coat. The fur felt nice, despite how old the coat probably was. She stoked the fire a little before finding the rest of her clothes. She braced herself for the cold outside. 

Irish went outside and walked to the horses. The Count and Brigadier hadn’t had it great out there in the snow. Irish did her best to keep them as warm as possible, usually keeping their blankets on their backs. She brushed the snow from the Count’s mane. As he huffed, white air came from his nostrils. She chuckled and moved onto Brigadier. The mare was a little more standoffish as Irish approached, but she understood that it was to help her. She brought in some wood as she came back inside.

“Still cold out there?” Arthur chuckled.

“No shit it’s cold. I’m glad we found this place. Can you imagine sleepin’ out in a canvas tent in that snow? Damn, think I’d rather go back to Saint Denis than do that.”

“Now that’s crazy. Get over here.”

“No! I gotta take care of the fire over here,” she chuckled.

“I guess,”

She started to halfheartedly trek back over to Arthur, shedding her warm outer clothes. Before she reached the bed, there was a loud sound from outside. Irish instinctively reached for her gun holster. Arthur already had a pistol in his hand, aiming for the door. They both waited in silence, but nothing more came. Nothing came bursting through the door. They both let out a sigh of relief.

They couldn’t let their guards down, not even in moments like these. Their paranoia upset the mood. Arthur got out of bed and got dressed. Irish went and found her gunbelt, making sure that her guns were fully loaded. The risk of being found was still there. That was just what came with running in a gang. Even if they had had good intentions, they had still done a lot of illegal things. The American government didn’t care if it was for good reasons. If it was killing people that the government didn’t care about, it was wrong. Irish prepared herself for another day in the cold.

* * *

Irish patted Taima’s side, chittering at the mare before moving on. She just wanted to make sure that they were all ready when it was finally time to get off the damn mountain. The last thing they needed was for one of them to collapse from exhaustion. She was trying her best to stay busy so she didn’t have to see that woman’s brains splattered on the wall of the ferry. She shook her head. It wasn’t the time to focus on that. She would have plenty of time once they shook the Pinkertons. That was the main goal for now. She hoped that she could keep her mind on that for long enough to get out of this mess. She’d tried talking to Arthur about it, but she should have known better. She doubted that there was anything that was going to make Arthur doubt Dutch. She couldn’t exactly blame him, either. Dutch had saved his life. He’d saved hers, too. How could she just leave that behind? It was her _family_ , the people who had taken her in without questions. She just didn’t think she could be blindly loyal anymore.

Javier didn’t seem to be having the same doubts, despite the fact he’d seen the same things that Irish had. He kept saying it was a bad situation and telling her to think about what she could have done differently. But that problem was that there wasn’t anything she could have done differently. She’d done everything according to plan. It was Micah who had let things get out of hand, just like he always did. She couldn’t understand why Dutch was still making excuses for that man. No matter what he may have seen in Micah when they first met, Dutch had to see now that Micah wasn’t worth keeping in the gang. He was a liability. She had never gone on a job with him that didn’t end in gunfire. Irish knew that Dutch wouldn’t cut him loose. It wasn’t in his nature. Despite what it was that they all actually did, Dutch tried to see the good in people. 

Well, people who didn’t work for the government or Colm O’Driscoll, anyway.

Irish moved onto Brown Jack, double checking that he was still saddled up properly. There was so much that she doubted she’d be able to look away from for too long, even if it was for her survival. She just couldn’t stop seeing that girl’s body hit the deck. She stepped away from the horses and held her head in her hands. It was one thing to shoot someone aiming for you. It was another to gun an unarmed young woman down in cold blood. Irish tried to remember if she’d had a wedding band. She hoped to whatever God was out there that she hadn’t been. Irish knew exactly what it felt like to lose someone you loved like that. If that woman had been married… she shuddered at the thought.

“Irish?” Dutch’s voice shocked Irish from her thoughts. 

“Hey, Dutch. You scared me,” Irish said as she forced a smile.

“You feelin’ all right, sweetheart? You’re shakin’ like a damn leaf. Let’s get you inside.”

“No, I’m fine, Dutch. Just a little cold out here. I’ve gotta finish up out here.”

“I’ll get Pearson or Bill to take care of that. C’mon, can’t have my best girl out here gettin’ sick.”

“Don’t let Molly hear you say that. She’ll hang us both.”

“Miss O’Shea can do her best. You know what I mean, Irish. You and Arthur, you’re the best among us up here. I need you. John’s healin’, Charles can’t do nothin’ with that hand of his. Get some rest.”

“I’m really fine, Dutch.”

“Consider it an order, then, if you won’t listen to friendly advice.” Dutch put his hand on her shoulder. There was genuine concern in his voice and eyes. It made it hurt that much more when she thought of his gun going off and the bullet hitting. The woman’s lifeless body hitting the floor and Micah yelling at Irish to run. Dutch’s hand on her arm pulling her away as she stared in shock at the sight before her.

Blood on her face from the woman’s brains getting blown out.

“You ain’t givin’ me a choice, are ya?” She brushed him off, taking a couple of steps back.

“No, I’m not.”

She sighed and put the horse brush into his hand. She walked towards the cabin without another word. How had he managed to make everything seem so normal? When he was speaking, it was like nothing had changed at all. She really wished that that could be true, but she had learned to stop trusting wishes a long time ago.

Irish walked into the cabin. Hosea was in a chair, reading a book she couldn’t see the name of. She collapsed into the chair next to him. She ran her hand across her cheek. She could still feel the wetness of the blood there. She had had to leave so fast that day it had dried on her face and taken ages to get out. Charles had stopped her when he saw her rubbing snow there. If he hadn’t shown up, she probably would have kept doing it until she got frostbite somewhere. Hosea looked up at her.

“We’re going to get out of this, Irish. You just have to trust us,” he said, smiling at her.

She was a little comforted by his words. “I know, Hosea, I know. I’m worried about Dutch, is all.”

“Don’t be. We been doin’ this a long time. Besides, with you here to keep us on the straight and narrow, we’ll all be fine.”

“I just hope you’re right about that one, Hosea.”

* * *

_I cannot begin to understand what it is that she sees in me. Irish Hammond has never been the type for foolish actions, not in the years that I have known her, yet this is a move only a fool would make. I won’t say that I haven’t enjoyed it. That I haven’t enjoyed her. She is something else. The fact that she could say she loves me, or could be falling in love with me, is not an idea I can wrap my head around._

_Mary always made me feel like a fool in love, following a broken dream. I do not yet know how to describe what Irish has done to me, but it certainly isn’t the same. Maybe that is simply because, unlike Mary, Irish was built for my world. I said once I would like to give up the nonsense that is being in love. I have changed my mind once more._

_I know one thing is certain: if it were not for Irish, I never would have survived the past few months. Micah would have killed me for sure. For that, I am beyond grateful to Irish. She is something else entirely. I cannot begin to understand what goes through her head. I can only listen to what she says with bated breath._

Arthur looked up from his journal as Irish came back inside the cabin. She cursed a couple of times as she kicked the snow off of her boots. She dropped her gloves on the nightstand by the fire and moved to put in a couple of more logs to make sure that it stayed strong for a while. She looked beautiful in the soft winter light. The sun coming in through one of the blinds gave her auburn hair a nice glow. When he took everything into consideration, it wasn’t so bad here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man. I'm listening to Quiet Uptown right now and it's giving me story ideas. I have no apologies for anything that may be written in the future.


	17. Fireflies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this before my power goes out because I have a feeling this storm is only just beginning. Anyway, enjoy!

It was a long winter. Not nearly as long as the one that trapped the group in Colter, but longer than Arthur and Irish liked. They stayed in that cabin until early March, when they could finally see the ground under the snow. Both of them agreed that they had stayed in one place for too long, considering that things were still tense. It would take some getting used to if they were going to do it again. Still, Irish had to admit that it was nice to pretend like they could settle down for a while. It was even nicer that they had managed to survive into the new century. 1900. Things could maybe be different now. With a new time, maybe they could find their place somewhere. She had never particularly cared for New Year’s before, but this one had been special. She had felt hopeful, truly hopeful, for the first time in a while.

Arthur finished saddling up the horses and came into the cabin to get Irish. She had her hands on her hips, taking one last look at the cabin. It had been a good home. She nodded and walked outside. It was still chilly out, but not enough to warrant the heavy wool coats that she and Arthur had. Those were safely stored away. Now, she wore a simple buckskin hunting jacket. It was as unsuspecting as she could get. She supposed that she’d actually have to buy a dress for town visits if she really wanted people to ignore her. A woman walking around in trousers wasn’t as uncommon as it used to be, but in some parts of the world it was still a strange sight, and certainly one that would be remembered. She didn’t need to be so easily described. Irish had been able to blend in with the crowds, once. She could do it again.

They needed to keep their heads down. Just because it was a new century didn’t mean that the government would just forgive and forget all of the bad things she and Arthur had done. She wondered if the Pinkertons really had been diverted to different places now. Since the Van der Linde gang didn’t exist in the same capacity that it used to, the agency would probably be diverted to groups like the Lemoyne Raiders or even the Murfree Brood. It made sense, considering those larger, semi-organised groups would be a bigger threat to the great society that they all preached about. Irish still couldn’t see what was so great about it. All she saw was black smoke and bloodshed.

She glanced ahead at Arthur. He was keeping his eyes on the road, one hand close to his pistol just in case they needed it. She had no doubts that he saw it the same way. They’d talked about it enough over the years that they could have written a book longer than any that Evelyn Miller had put out. Dutch probably would’ve eaten the whole thing up, too, and tried to debate Lenny over it. 

Times were changing. Arthur had been telling everyone that for well over a year. He had seen the way of life that they had all cherished so fading away. It was just out of reach back then. Now, Irish wasn’t even sure that she could see it anymore. It was too far away. The world didn’t want the gunslingers and outlaws. It didn’t want someone who would just as soon shake your hand as they would arm the other. It wanted someone who would smile at you, even if you pissed them off because it was the polite thing to do. The Wild West was being tamed faster and faster every day. Soon enough, there wouldn’t be any part of it left, just cities like Saint Denis and New York. 

Irish would try her best to fit in with the society, even if she loathed it, if that meant that she got to survive just a little bit longer with Arthur. She would ignore all of the aggression she’d let build up for so long and all of the things from her best. She only wanted to think of the present and the future. As long as Arthur was by her side, she felt that she could do anything and be anyone.

* * *

“Dutch, you _have_ to let me go on this job!” Irish begged. “I’m the one who brought in the lead in the first place!”

“No. You’re still too young to be goin’ on jobs like this one,” Dutch shot back.

“John is 15 and he’s goin’! Say what it’s really about, Dutch. You don’t think a woman can handle this job!”

“Now, I didn’t say that. You haven’t run with us that long yet, Irish. You ain’t had practice runnin’ with us like the boys.”

“And how am I s’pposed to get practice if you ain’t never gonna let me leave camp and ride with ya?! Dutch, c’mon. I’m ready! Besides, if I have to stay in this camp with Susan Grimshaw tellin’ me I ain’t doin’ enough work ‘round here, I just might shoot her.”

Dutch sighed heavily, running his hand over his face. Irish wasn’t backing down. She had worked really hard to get the tip and make sure that it would check out. She was going to be a part of this, even if she had to do it by herself. Dutch stopped walking in front of his tent. He was getting just as frustrated as Irish was.

“C’mon, Dutch, let her ride with us,” Arthur shrugged. “We wouldn’t’ve brought her on board if she was gonna be dead weight. Besides, you _were_ sayin’ we could use an extra gun while Javier and Hosea are out doin’ their job.”

Dutch let out a heavy sigh of defeat. “Fine, you can go, Irish. Just stick with Arthur and don’t do anything foolish.”

“Fine.”

Dutch walked away grumbling something under his breath. Irish held her arms up in the air in silent victory. She’d done it. She’d won. With the help of Arthur, of course, who was probably the only person other than Hosea or Annabelle that could tell Dutch anything. She felt lucky that she was going at all. She’d get Arthur something next time they were in town to say thank you. Irish did her best to contain her excitement. It would be her first time doing something like this with a group of people. That was the part that made her nervous, not breaking the law. She’d broken plenty of laws. She wanted these people, this gang, to trust her. She had been with them for maybe two months at the most now but she still felt like they were on edge around her. She needed this to prove herself to them. This was her chance. She needed to make sure that she didn’t fuck it up.

* * *

“We need to get the hell out of here, now!” John yelled.

Arthur tossed the last of the money into his satchel. Irish fired at one of the horsemen coming towards the group. Her horse bucked a couple of times, unused to the noise. She gently rubbed the mare’s neck and shot again, knocking someone off of his horse. Arthur and John mounted up and the four of them set off. Dutch ordered them to split up.

“Irish, you’re with me. Arthur, John, get the hell outta here! Not to camp!” he yelled, firing a shot into the air to bring the attention onto himself and Irish.

They ran their horses hard and fast into the woods. They made so many twists and turns that Irish almost got lost twice. She just kept her eyes on Dutch’s horse. Eventually, when he was certain that there wasn’t anyone else following them, he came to a stop. He dismounted, Irish following suit. They sent the horses off. 

“We’ll continue on foot from here. The horses’ll make their way back to camp. C’mon.”

Dutch pulled down the checkered scarf he used as a mask. Irish did the same. She kept her pistol drawn. They moved silently and without any lanterns. They couldn’t risk being found now, but it was still all too real of a possibility to be ignored. Irish kept her eyes mostly behind them, trusting Dutch to lead her safely. The air around them was slowly getting colder and colder. Irish had long since lost track of when the sun went down, so she had no clue what time it was. She had no inclination to ask Dutch, either, even though she knew that he had his pocket watch on him. They needed to make sure that they stayed unseen and unheard until they got back to camp.

Everything happened so suddenly. At first, they were just walking along through the woods. Irish had almost been certain that they were scot free. The next thing she knew, Dutch was being thrown to the ground by someone. She heard the struggle before she saw it. Dutch’s gun had fallen from his hand before he had hit the ground. Irish didn’t hesitate to raise her own gun and fire. The bullet hit the man attacking Dutch square in the back. It was good enough of a hit to kill him instantly. Dutch pushed the man off of him and they started running and they didn’t stop until they were almost out of breath. He leaned against a tree, holding a hand to his chest.

“You just saved my life, Irish.”

“I know, Dutch. Ain’tcha glad you brought me now?”

“I surely am. C’mon, let’s get back to camp. I think we deserve a drink. Or ten.”

“I’m thinkin’ the same thing.”

* * *

Arthur and John got back before Dutch and Irish. Hell, even Javier and Hosea had beat them. Arthur wasn’t too worried about those two. Annabelle was another story. She was always so concerned whenever Dutch went off on a job. There were no guarantees in this life, he knew that. There was always that chance that one of them wouldn’t come back from a job. It was the life that he expected Mary to come into for him. He did hate the thought of her sitting in camp, waiting with bated breath to see who came back. She had gone home for a while after she received a letter from her father. He hated that man. Arthur had no doubts he would be trying to convince Mary to leave once more. Arthur just hoped that their love would be enough to keep her with him. He truly did love her more than anything else in his life. Even more than Cooper. Not that it was much of a competition or comparison there.

Finally, Irish and Dutch walked back into camp. They were covered in mud but chatting like old friends. There was no sign of the animosity from earlier in the day. Dutch immediately went to Annabelle, just like he always did, and Irish made her way back to one of the tents. Dutch came back a few moments later and announced that they were having a party to celebrate a job well done and the official introduction of Irish Hammond into the Van der Linde gang. She had done more than just get them the tip and the money. She had saved his life. Arthur watched Annabelle pull Irish into a tight hug and plant a kiss on her cheek. Her way of thanking Irish for saving Dutch.

It finally seemed like Irish was a part of the group. She was drinking with them, ragging on them, telling stories that Arthur wasn’t sure were entirely true. She fit in perfectly. Arthur got himself a beer and sat at a vacant table. 

Mary did join him, at some point. He wanted to say he was happy to see her, but the look in her eyes only filled him with dread.

“Daddy’s found me someone to marry,” she said.

“You’re s’pposed to be marryin’ me.” Arthur responded.

“I know, Arthur. And you know that I love you, so much, but we need to be honest with ourselves. You ain’t never gonna change and I ain’t never gonna fit into this life. You’re an outlaw.”

“And you’re some kinda debutant now, just waitin’ to be married off to some fool you ain’t even met nor loved?”

“That’s not fair, Arthur.”

“But that is why you’re leavin’, ain’t it? Don’t lie to me, Mary, you’re leavin’. Why’d you even bother comin’ back at all?”

“Because I owe it to you, Arthur, to what’s between us. I love you.”

“Then why won’t you stay?”

“We’re goin’ in circles.” she sighed. “I’m sorry, Arthur. Truly, I am, but this is goodbye.”

She walked around and kissed his cheek. He didn’t say anything. He became very interested in the split in the wooden surface of the table. Mary stood there for a few more moments. She was probably waiting for him to say he loved her back, or to say goodbye, or maybe even beg her to stay one more time. Arthur wasn’t the begging type. Mary’s mind was already made up. He was losing her and he didn’t know how to fight for her anymore. Things had been so simple once upon a time. Mary finally left and Arthur finally finished his beer, still staring at the table.

A bottle of whiskey was set in his line of sight. Irish looked at him with a sympathetic smile. “C’mon then, Morgan. Let’s get you drunk out of your mind.”

He was more than happy to take her up on that offer. They took turns taking swigs out of the bottle until their words were slurring together. She even got him to sing a few drunken lines of something that was probably a song. He wanted to forget the night. In the morning, the throbbing headache he’d have would fit his mood better. 

When he finally woke up, he was somehow on his cot and not in the middle of the woods. Irish was sitting in a chair nearby, reading the playbook Hosea had gifted her and sipping on a coffee. When she saw he was awake, she offered another cup to him. He gladly took it.

“Anythin’ interestin’ happen last night?”

“Besides you dressin’ up in lady clothes?”

“I did what?!”

“Relax, cowboy, it’s a joke. No, you just sang and danced and passed out by the fire. Dutch and Javier carried you to your bunk. You should eat somethin’ with that coffee, too.”

“How is your head not killin’ you?”

“It’s in my name, Arthur. I’m Irish, we can actually hold our liquor.”

“That’s unfair.”

“I know. But suffer in silence. I think Dutch has got somethin’ else planned for you today.”

Arthur groaned loudly and Irish laughed. All Arthur wanted to do was go and get drunk again, just somewhere else so the others wouldn’t see him this time. He wanted to drown his sorrows. Maybe he’d head into town later and see what the saloon had there.

“Hey, Irish?”

“Yeah, Arthur?”

“Thank you. For last night.”

“‘Course, Arthur. Anytime.”

She smiled once more, patting his shoulder a couple of times before shuffling off to do some work around the camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary/Arthur angst. Gotta love it.
> 
> On a side note, I really hate Mary. She's one of those people that really just uses others. At least, from the few interactions we have with her in game, that's how she's come across. Definitely loved Arthur at some point, but I don't think it was ever enough to want to run away with him. She absolutely used him in the game to get what she wanted and I am so glad that for my second playthrough I didn't help her.
> 
> Can you see why I made a different person for Arthur?


	18. Back to Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmmmmhm. Six more chapters and this story is over. Are you ready?

Irish did one more look over the catalogue. She wrote down a couple more cans of food before she was satisfied. Arthur was still looking around himself. They had agreed that they wouldn’t go off on their own for too long anymore. There wasn't a great risk of them being found, but they had also said the same thing in Blue Banks. She walked over to kiss his cheek, walking just outside of the door. She made sure that she was still in view through the small door window so he wouldn’t get worried. She stretched once she was out in fresh air. The air was finally warm again. She took a deep breath. It smelled like familiar country again, too. She and Arthur had tried heading north for as long as they could, but once they hit the mountains again, they knew that they wouldn’t be able to go any further without supplies at the very least. More supplies than their two horses could carry. Since then, they’d been heading more south-west. 

It had become a habit to check for bounty posters in every town that they went. Irish had been counting the months. It had been over a year since Blackwater, now, and nearly seven since they had been on the run. While their names would never truly be forgotten by those who enforced the law, it did seem like they were more focused on people _still_ committing crimes throughout those “great” United States. It worked for them. 

Irish struck a match on her boot and held the flame to the cigarette in her mouth. Before she could finish lighting it, she heard a scream from down the road. She flicked the match into the street and looked over. A young girl, probably no older than 16, was running. Her blouse was torn and her skirt was covered in dirt and muck. It wasn’t long before three drunken men were following her, calling out pet names and trying to get her to come back to them. Irish took a deep breath and stepped away from the general store. She fired one shot into the air.

The whole town went silent. The girl stopped running a few feet away from Irish and the men were still standing by the saloon. Irish dropped her duster over the girl’s shoulders and pulled her hat over her eyes. So much for staying quiet. Oh, well. They were really only here for supplies. It wasn’t like they had ever planned on staying in town. She stood protectively in front of the girl, her gun still drawn.

“You fellers causin’ trouble for this girl?” She asked. Her voice was low and angry and with the added effect of her gun, she could practically see them shaking in their boots.

“N-no ma’am. We was just havin’ a little fun, is all.”

“Yeah, fun. We wasn’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.”

Irish looked back at the girl, She was clutching that duster like it was a lifeline. Irish pointed her pistol at the man in the center. “You got ‘til the count of three to get the hell outta my sight.”

“C’mon, now, ain’t that a little-”

“One.”

She didn’t need to go any higher than that to have those men running for their lives. She waited until they disappeared before she holstered her pistol. There were a few people staring out from windows or looking over balconies, but as soon as her gun was put away, they all started acting like they hadn’t been watching at all. Irish didn’t care about them. Arthur was standing just outside of the general store. Irish didn’t want to think about how to explain this to him properly yet. Instead, she kneeled in front of the girl, gently brushing some of her dishevelled hair behind her ear.

“Hey there. What’s your name?” Irish asked.

“B-Bonnie.”

“Where d’you live, Bonnie? I think we need to get you home.”

Irish escorted Bonnie to her house. She lived with her mother alone. She went to give Irish back her coat.

“Naw, you keep it. And learn how to use a gun, Bonnie. This world ain’t kind, ‘specially not to those stupid enough to believe in the good of people.”

“Well, you’re good, ain’t you?”

Irish smiled a little sadly. “Only sometimes.”

She tipped her hat to the small family and walked back to town. Arthur was already waiting for her with the Count and Brigadier all ready to go. Irish decided to wait until they were far away to stop and have a real conversation about this. They still had a lot of eyes on them. One thing she knew for certain; if she hadn’t been trying to lie low, and yes, that was lying low, she wouldn’t have hesitated to kill all three of those men. Bonnie was just a girl. A kid, really. They had no business treating her, or anyone, for that matter, like that.

* * *

“All right, John. I think you’ve lost enough of your money to these fine gentlemen,” Irish laughed, watching him flounder with poker again. Even after seven years of trying to teach him, he still wasn’t getting it. Maybe one day someone would be able to show him how to bluff properly. “Let’s take whatever you got left and buy a few drinks before we head home.”

“You’re right, Irish. Always are. Gentlemen.” He gave a short nod and followed Irish to the bar.

“22 years old, can’t handle his booze and can’t handle his cards. You ain’t much of an outlaw, are you?” 

“Shut up.”

“Listen to your elders, John Marston.”

“You’re four years older than me. That ain’t that much.”

“Only the young say that.” Irish held up her hand to flag down the bartender. She ordered two shots of whiskey, sliding one to John. “Ah, well, at least it’s cheap to get you fucked up.”

The longer they were in the bar, the more they drank and the more people that came in. The sun was almost completely gone from the sky and the saloon was packed with people. A lively tune came from the piano. Some people were dancing, others were trying to drink in some semblance of peace. It was a scene that she had seen far too many times in her life and yet would never get tired of. She liked watching people. Most of them were the same, pretending to be polite and fit in with whatever society they had built for themselves, but when the sun went down, it was free reign. They could drink, they could cheat on their wives, they could do what they wanted and in the morning, they could forget it had happened at all. 

There was one group of men that was particularly rowdy. It was a mix of drinking songs, cursing, and a couple things being thrown across the saloon. Whenever someone would go to talk to them about shutting up, they would yell until that person left. Irish figured that it was about time for her and John to head back to camp, anyway. She took one more shot of whiskey and stood. John was holding open the door for her when she heard it.

It was a name that she had tried so hard to forget. A name that had caused so much grief in her life.

Conor O’Hara.

She turned around to face the group once more. There was one man there who was older than the rest, but his hair was still a distinct auburn colour. The same auburn as Irish’s. 

“Hey!” She said. “Conor O’Hara, was it?” 

“What’s it to ya?” The Irish accent was thick. She hated it. 

“In 1867, did you meet a woman named Janet Hammond?”

“Janet Hammond?” Conor leaned back into his chair, stroking his chin. “Ah! Janet! T’ere’s a memory for ye. Aye, I knew ‘er. She was a nice, tight cunt and a cheap whore. Free, actually, if I’m rememberin’ properly.”

Red filled Irish’s vision. Before she really could comprehend what she was doing, her gun was drawn and pointed at Conor’s chest. She pulled the trigger and he went falling back to the floor. John grabbed her arm, pulling her out of the saloon. Irish jumped on her horse and started to ride fast back to camp. They were gone faster than the sheriff and his deputies could get to the saloon. 

“Who the hell was that, Irish?!” John yelled.

“My dear old dad.” Irish responded. “Never met him before.”

“And the first thing you did was shoot him?! That’s crazy!”

“In my defense, he told her he loved her, got her pregnant, abandoned her after convincing her he was dying and she died of a broken heart when she learned he was still alive.”

“That’s not a real defense! What’re you going to tell Dutch? We’re going to have to move camp.”

“I know! I know. I’m workin’ on that.”

“Well, work faster. We’re almost back.”

“Dutch is gonna kill me.”

“Not in camp.”

Seven years down the drain because Irish hadn’t been able to control her temper. She had been saddled with all of the crap that he had left behind. Stories her mother had told her, and even the nickname she had now. As far as Irish was concerned, Conor O’Hara had killed her mother. He had made her mother a pariah. Irish had been branded the same way before she’d even been born. Her mother died. He knew that Irish existed, that she was alive, and he’d decided that he wanted nothing to do with her. She’d been in an orphanage for the next eight years of her life. She’d had to learn to survive on her own. She was glad that he was dead.

She was glad she had been the one to kill him.

Irish and John got back to camp. John told Dutch Irish had had to kill a bounty hunter. That was enough for Dutch to make them move. Irish didn’t ask why John had covered for her. John had just taken care of it.

* * *

Irish left camp once they’d settled. She didn’t say where they were going, she just left. Arthur had wanted to ask, but the look on John’s face told him to leave it alone. He was really worried about her the whole time that she was gone. He was so used to her coming to him to work things out and he had no idea why this had changed so quickly. It had been a month since she’d left now and there was no sign of her coming back. He wanted to try and find her, but Dutch had told him to let her be. If she was coming back, she’d come back. It wasn’t exactly uncommon for her to do things like that when something bad happened. After all, she and Hosea had been out of the gang for almost four months. Arthur just didn’t like that she was out there alone.

So when he heard hooves coming into camp, he would perk up. If he was on guard duty for the night, he was specifically looking for her to come back. She was the only person that he could put up with for more than a few hours in this damn group.

Eventually, she did come home to them, but she wasn’t the same as she used to be. Hosea was the first person that she talked to. They were in his tent for a really long time. She came out and immediately went to Dutch. She apologised for leaving. Dutch pat her shoulder and told her it was fine. That night, she sat with Arthur in front of the scout fire.

“Sorry I left without tellin’ you,” she said.

“What happened, Irish? You wouldn’t’ve left just for a bounty hunter.”

She looked into the fire. “I… he was… it don’t matter anymore now. He’s dead and that’s that. No takin’ it back. Sorry for leavin’.”

That was the last thing that she said to him. Even John remained silent about whatever had happened in that saloon. It was obvious that it was something more than what they said, but no one in camp questioned it. Whatever it was, it had changed something fundamentally within Irish. She was calmer. She thought through her actions before taking them and was silent more often as she thought about what she wanted to say. When the gang had a party, she had maybe a beer or two and then turned in for the night. Whoever had come back to camp wasn’t the same person that had gotten Arthur drunk after Mary. Arthur hadn’t even realised he would miss that side of Irish so much.

* * *

Irish took a deep breath. “Sorry I lost my temper back there. I know you wanted to check into a hotel sometime soon.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was more important to help that young lady out,” Arthur smiled softly. “Been a while since I seen you lose it at all. That weren't nearly as bad as it coulda been.”

“I know. Made a lotta mistakes when I was younger.”

“We all did.”

Irish leaned against Arthur’s shoulder. “One day, we’re gonna stop runnin’ so much.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep. Find some land somewhere. Be ranchers or farmers or somethin’ respectable like that.”

“You? Respectable? And pigs’ll fly.”

“It could happen. It _will_ happen. If it’s with you, I will sink to any level of civilization.” Arthur chuckled. Irish stared into the soft glow of their fire. “Don’t expect me to be a housewife, though. That’s one thing I will _never_ be able to do.”

“Of course not. I fully expect you to be out there workin’ just as hard as me. Harder, actually. I don’t know too much ‘bout ranchin’.”

“And what makes you think that I do?”

“We’ll figure it out. For now, get some rest, Irish. We both need it.”

* * *

She was still running. Only now, she came across a fork in the road. She stopped to catch her breath. Where was she supposed to go? Two figures with blurred, distorted features and voices appeared before her. When she opened her mouth, no words came out. She was once more stuck with no idea what she was supposed to do.

What was she supposed to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep so Irish killed her dad. Hardcore. Shot him in the chest. She's pretty badass and irrational sometimes.


	19. **Ever After**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My peeps are living their best lives on the run.

They kept on moving. Always, always moving. Irish and Arthur never stayed in the same place for more than a couple of days. It did seem that whatever groups had been gunning for them had finally started to back off. Their bounties were still out there. No doubt if there was ever a rumour of them being out and about, they would have hunters coming for them from every which-way. For that reason, they would never use their real names. No one really knew them. They did odd jobs around for various people, they caught bounties themselves, they did whatever they could for money. The things that Irish and Arthur had talked about remained fresh in their minds. They wanted to settle down and find a place of their own. There was somewhere out there for them. They just had to find it.

That was why Irish appreciated the quiet moments the most. The moments like these, when she could relax and not have to worry about the rest of the world. The hotel was surprisingly still, save for the sound of far away thunder outside. None of the usual moaning, groaning, and crying. It seemed like she and Arthur were the only two tenants. Or maybe it just had decent walls, like the one in Strawberry. Irish supposed that it really didn’t matter either way in the end. She liked it. They would only be staying in town for the night while the storm passed. 

She laid back on the bed and stared at the barren ceiling. It stretched far above her head and curved outwards towards the sky. In some ways, it was comforting to have a roof over her head. In others, she felt like she was trapped without the stars in view. She rolled onto her side. She stayed for a few more moments before getting up. She wasn’t entirely sure why she felt this restless. She just needed to move. She left her gun belt upstairs. It was a little strange for a woman in a skirt to be wearing one, anyway. Besides, she had two different knives with her for now. She’d be fine. She walked downstairs.

“Ah! Mrs. O’Neal. Your husband wanted me to let you know he’s taking advantage of our baths,” a passing attendant said.

“Thank you.”

She smiled until the attendant was gone. Irish turned, trotting down the hall with a devious smile crossing her lips. She had found her way to pass the time. She stopped by the bath door, undoing a few buttons on her blouse and letting her hair down before knocking on the door.

“Need any help, sir?” She asked, adding more of a lilt to her accent, just for fun,

“Nah, I’m all right.” Arthur’s voice came through muffled.

His answer warmed Irish’s heart. She pushed open the door. “You sure you don’t need any help?” She asked again, leaning against the door frame.

Arthur perked up when he saw her. Irish came inside and closed the door behind her. She walked slowly to the tub, letting her sleeve fall over her shoulder as she sat next to the tub. She fathered some soap in her hands and started to rub gentle circles into his scalp with her fingertips. He leaned back into her touch, closing his eyes. She moved her hands through his hair. She made her way down to his shoulders. She worked on getting the tenseness out of his muscles. She supposed that the amount of time that they had spent on the road had really been adding up. Arthur relaxed easily into her familiar touch. 

He let out a soft moan. It was barely audible, but Irish had long since gotten used to all of his sounds. His face softened. In the dim light of the candles, he really did look beautiful. She leaned forward, pressing a light kiss just behind his ear. Arthur reached out of the water and held her there so he could give her a proper kiss in return. Irish indulged him.

She moved away from him and shook her head. “You need to behave yourself, sir,” Irish scolded, “or you might just get a punishment.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Do I get a reward if I behave?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

Arthur gave a quiet chuckle in response. Irish took his arm and set it to rest on the side of the tub. His eyes never left her face as she scrubbed all of the dirt off of him. She took the time to appreciate just how toned his muscles really were. As much as she wanted to just pull him to his feet right then, she knew that she would have so much more fun teasing him relentlessly. She finished and slowly moved to the other side of the tub, swaying her hips as she walked. She got to work as soon as he lifted his arm to the side of the tub.

They remained in silence with each other. Both of them knew how this was going to end. It was now more of a matter of who was going to crack first. As she moved lower to the ground, her other sleeve slid down off of her shoulder. It allowed more of her breasts to be exposed. Arthur dropped his gaze down hungrily, eagerly, and licked his lips. She pulled his leg up from the warm water. She started as his ankle and started to make her way down at an agonisingly slow pace, for both of them, until she reached his inner thigh. She moved her hand in gentle circles against his skin. Irish revelled in the expressions he was making, the way his breath would hitch when she got just _slightly_ too close. It was music to her ears. She truly was loving every second of this.

Before she could move on to his other leg, Arthur grabbed Irish’s wrist, stopping her in her tracks. He brought her closer with one hand on the back of her neck and the other on her hip. He leaned forward and kissed her again. It wasn’t nearly as tender as the first. His frustration with her teasing was more than apparent. His fingers trailed along her waist, reaching for her exposed shoulder and tracing along her collarbone. It was Irish’s turn to take in a short breath as his rough hand found her breast over her shirt. He took advantage of her mouth opening and slid his tongue against hers. She let him have his moment, but was still quick to push him away.

“Now, now, sir, is that behavin’ yourself?” Irish scolded again. “You’ve gotten my shirt all wet.”

“I am sorry, darlin’. That can’t be too comfortable.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Lift your other leg.”

She scrubbed his other leg in the same way, moving slightly slower and pressing more into his muscles. Irish moved behind his back again, massaging his shoulders again. She slid her hands down across his chest to his stomach and over his muscles. She kissed his neck. He leaned his head back further. He swallowed, hard, trying his best not to show just how much he really wanted this. He wanted to behave for her. Irish grinned. She was loving this so much more than she wanted to admit. Her hands kept kneading his skin. There were a couple of times that she hit some rough knots and he’d wince while she worked on them, but he would relax again quickly. 

She kissed the corner of his mouth once, then twice. He turned his head towards her, their lips just barely brushing against each other. Irish stayed there for a moment, inches away from him before leaning forward and giving him what he really wanted. She kissed him with a passion reserved for these moments. She readjusted herself so she wasn’t at quite such an awkward angle. She was happy to see that even after taking a bath, he still had that smell. Gunsmoke and cigarettes. It was perfect. He tasted ever so slightly like the cheap whiskey that the saloon across the way served. Or maybe that was her. It didn’t matter. She allowed herself to get completely lost in the moment.

Irish dangled her fingers in the water. She reached down, running her nails across his thigh until she reached his half hard member. She wrapped her fingers around it and squeezed gently. He groaned against her mouth but kept his hands still. Well, maybe he was earning his reward instead. She leaned away from the tub and finished unbuttoning her top. She took it off and carefully folded it on top of the pile of Arthur’s clothes. He watched her every move. He was already on his knees in the tub. The floor was covered in water but Irish didn’t mind. She walked back over to him, holding out her arms. He took hold of her wrists once more and pulled her back to him quickly. He kissed her open mouth, allowing her to taste him once more. She would never grow tired of it. Arthur found the button keeping her skirt in place and quickly undid it. The fabric unfurled as it fell to her feet.

She stepped from the circle of fabric and took off her bloomers. Arthur looked up and down her body in approval. She had a mess of scars from burns, gunshots, and knives, but Arthur had never cared. He was much the same. They had both lived hard lives and it showed. Irish knew that she wanted him to be the last person to see those scars like this. He was the last person that she wanted to kiss and the last person that she wanted to love. She took a deep breath and stepped into the tub with him. The water was hardly even warm at all but she didn’t care. Almost as soon as her lower half was submerged, ARthur was on her again, this time focusing his attention to the spot just behind her ear, sucking and kissing hard enough to leave a mark. He pushed her against the back of the tub. His hands slid up and down her legs, returning her earlier treatment. He pulled her forward just enough so that she was straddling his hips. With his hands gripping tightly onto her ass, he lowered her onto his erect cock.

Irish leaned her head back against the edge of the tub. She moaned quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace of the night more than they already had. Arthur rested his head against her shoulder. She started to move her hips, looking for that familiar friction. He got the message and started to thrust. Each movement caused more water to get sent over the side of the tub. She kept a tight grip on his shoulders as he moved. It was all she could do to keep herself grounded to this moment.

With no warning, he pulled out and lifted her out of the tub. He held her easily in his arms and carried her to the small stool in the corner. He sat down and repositioned himself at her entrance. Irish sank down once more. The angle was so much better. He had his hands on her waist and kept the pace consistent. The pleasure started to surge through her in waves. She bit back a moan and rested her head against his shoulder. Her eyes were squeezed shut.

Her breathing got faster and faster as his pace quickened. Arthur was letting out his own series of grunts and groans. 

“Irish, darlin’, I’m close,” he whispered.

That was it. It was the sound of her name that finally pushed her over the edge. It was the only time that she ever heard it now, was from his lips. The nickname had never sounded more beautiful to her. She kept moving up and down through her orgasm until she felt him twitch. He moaned loudly as he came, filling her up. She kept her head on his shoulder before getting up. 

They both got dried off and dressed. They headed up to their shared room together and laid down. Arthur kept Irish close against his chest. He fell asleep quickly. He was always able to sleep anywhere. Irish wasn’t nearly as lucky. She was kept up by dangerous thoughts. Thoughts that the past would never really leave her alone.

She was haunted by Dutch’s face as she aimed her pistol at him. Arthur was limp in her arms. She had barely been able to keep them both upright as she stared her mentor down. The look of betrayal had spread across his face as he realised what she was implying and what had happened to Micah. She still wasn’t sure if she could shoot Dutch now if she saw him again. Was he even still alive? She had been keeping an ear out for any information on him and the others, just to see if they were okay, but there had been nothing for over a year. It wasn’t like Dutch to be quiet for so long. Or maybe it was now. Perhaps seeing his family fall apart because of his actions had been enough to open his eyes. Irish preferred the idea that he was dead set in his insanity.

Arthur’s soft snores pulled her from her dark thoughts and eventually lulled her to sleep for a few hours. She woke up long before him. Before the sun, even. She took advantage of it, packing up whatever things they had left lying around and changing into a pair of trousers. She tightened her gun belt and made sure all of their guns were loaded. Irish walked quietly downstairs and started loading up the horses. She looked at the Count. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around his neck. She ran her fingers through his mane.

“I’m so sorry, boy,” she whispered. “He abandoned you just like the rest of us. I’m so, so sorry.”

She wanted that feeling to go away. She hated thinking that Dutch had abandoned them, even if it was true. That was the real proof of his indoctrination of the gang. She had _watched_ him kill and hurt people for an idea that wasn’t even his own and she still was trying to justify it to herself. Any time she was alone, that was all she could think about. It was another reason that she was so grateful for Arthur. He was a beautiful anchor, keeping her grounded in the unruly, unforgiving sea of her mind.

As the sun came up over the horizon, she felt Arthur’s arms wrap around her waist. He kissed the back of her neck.

“We’d better head out before the town wakes up,” Irish said.

“You’re right. The horses ready?” Arthur asked.

“As they’ll ever be.”

They mounted up and started to move. 

Onwards. 

Always onwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irish has some issues she still needs to work out but she's getting there.


	20. No Gravity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter but you never know. I could post a second one today ;)

Irish woke up before Arthur, like she usually did, but it was different this time. She felt sick to her stomach. She rolled out of bed quickly and ran away from their camp. She leaned against a tree as she got a second viewing of dinner. The sight and smell was bad enough to make her go again. She kept throwing up until there was nothing left. She saw Arthur from the corner of her eye. She waved him away, still coughing and sputtering. She stayed there for a moment, waiting until the feeling had passed completely before standing again. Her legs were still shaky as she walked away and back to the campfire.

She laid down in the grass. It took some time, but eventually she felt back to normal completely. She put an arm over her eyes and just stayed there for a moment. She hated being sick. It hadn’t happened too many times in her life, but it was always miserable. Irish really didn’t want to eat anything. She groaned. This wasn’t good. It really, really wasn’t good. She let out a shaky breath. 

“How you feelin’?” Arthur asked.

“Fine. Borderline fine. Y’know what, right on the line of fine and wantin’ to die,” Irish responded.

“You should eat somethin’. We gotta move camp today. Last thing we need is you collapsin’ ‘cause you ain’t eaten nothin’ all day.”

“No. Absolutely not. Food is the last thing on my mind.”

“I wasn’t suggestin’ it darlin’, I’m tellin’ you. You’re eatin’ these eggs I made. Do it.”

Arthur put a plate in her lap. Irish begrudgingly started to eat them. She had to stop every couple of bites when she felt like she might puke again. It was taking longer to pass than she hoped that it would. Arthur made sure that she finished the whole plate before taking it away. When she tried to stand up, he would push her back down or just glare at her until she was sitting again. He really was worried about her. Irish crossed her legs. She let out a frustrated sigh.

She didn’t like not doing anything. It gave her too much time to think. How had it already been a full year since they had been living in a cave? They had come surprisingly far. In a couple more years, they’d have enough money to actually buy their own land and start making a home. That was what Irish focused on. The idea and hope of starting a life with Arthur by her side. It wasn’t something that she had really ever thought she’d have hope for again. Layton had been the only person who had believed that she was capable of that life before. It was an unfortunate fact that no one thought much of orphans. They were just lost folks that were destined to work in factories or become whores. Irish had done everything she could to avoid those choices and Layton had really given her a choice. 

Irish leaned against her hands and watched Arthur work for a moment.

* * *

The young girl curled up in the corner of her bed. Her knees were pulled up to her chest. She was trying her best not to cry. She didn’t want them to see her tears. The only thing she wanted was to see her mother again. A piece of her knew that that was impossible but she was still hoping that it wasn’t true. Maybe her mother was out there just waiting to come and get her from this awful place. It was what she dreamed about.

“What are you doing down here, love?” someone asked.

She looked up and saw one of the nuns. She buried her head back into her legs. “I ain’t got no friends here.”

“You don’t? Well, why’s that?”

“They all make fun’a me. Call me Irish all the time.”

“Why would they call you that?”

“‘Cos my daddy, I guess. I dunno. Never met him.”

“Well, you know what you need to do? You need to make that name your own, darling. Embrace it.”

“Don’t call me darlin’, please. My mamma called me darlin’.”

“Okay, okay,” the nun laughed a little, “but you are gonna be fine, all right? This place isn’t so bad, I promise. Come on, let’s go back out there, _Irish_.”

The nun held out her hand. The young girl looked at her with suspicion in her eyes, but she knew that there was no other choice. She crawled off of the bed and walked outside again. She knew that she was going to have to get used to being on her own now. Everyone left her. She knew far too much of the world for a girl of her age. Young Irish Hammond grew up before it was her time. What was supposed to be a childhood turned into a life of hardwork and struggling to get by.

* * *

Irish looked over at Layton. He was reading some book she had never heard of. Not that that was too hard to do. She wasn’t really that much into reading. She stared at him because she still couldn’t believe that he was real. She had been alone for so long now that she forgot what it actually was to rely on someone else. She knew that she could put all of her trust in him. She truly, truly loved him. Irish leaned her head on his shoulder. He smelled like old leather and book ink. He was perfect. She had known men that would try to take over her whole life. They wanted to control her. Layton had never done that. She felt like an equal.

“Never leave, ‘kay?” Irish said.

“What makes you think I’d want to?”

She shrugged. “Most people do, I guess.”

“Well, then, get used to me bein’ there. I mean it. When you wake up, when you go to sleep, even when you think you’re alone, I’ll be there. I’ll be around so much, you’ll wish I _would_ leave.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“We shall see, my dear, we shall see.”

* * *

Irish finally was allowed to get up and only because it was time to move. Arthur was a little too worried about her. She held up a hand when he wanted to help her onto her horse.

“Arthur, I ain’t dyin’ yet. I can get on a horse without an issue. You’re worryin’ too much.”

“You’re the only person I got to worry about now.”

“Well, stop it. Or just stop it as much. You’re gonna worry yourself to death and then where will I be?”

Arthur smiled. “You’re right. All right, I’ll take it down a notch.”

“Thank you. Now, let’s go find a nice clearin’ several miles away from here.”

Arthur watched over Irish while she slept. He had taken the first watch because he knew that she needed the rest. Even if she didn’t think he saw it, he knew that she would only sleep for a few hours every night. She would always play it off like she was fine. He wanted to be there to help her finally sleep peacefully. Even now, she was fitful. Despite that, he was enamoured.

In the moonlight, he could have sworn that he was looking at a goddess. Arthur had never been a particularly religious man but Irish made him believe in angels. How could he not? He had never known someone as selfless as she was. That was why he pushed so hard to make her stop and relax every now and then. She deserved to be selfish every now and then. 

He would never fully understand why she had chosen him, of all the men in the world, but he had learned to stop questioning it and just accept it. Her smiles were for him. He was going to do whatever it took to keep it on her face. Arthur sighed in contentment and settled in next to her. She wiggled closer to him, scrunching her nose slightly and mumbling something before drifting back to sleep. He truly was a lucky man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! Irish has a real name! A name that will eventually be revealed. But not within the first part of this. Oh, yeah, did I mention that I'm planning a second part? It's in the early stages of development, so to speak. It'll more than likely, once written, be posted with this story all in one easy to find, easy to read place. :D


	21. Time in a Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I done goofed up the chapter titles. Now folks gonna be confused. If you're reading this after the change, 20 is No Gravity and 21 is Time in a Tree. They were posted in the right order I just can't read numbered lists well.

Irish hated the cities, almost as much as Arthur, but they didn’t have any other choice than to make their way through this one. Black smoke spewed from factories and the coal dust was caked into the cobbled streets. The sound of their horses’ hooves echoed through the streets despite the amount of people walking through them. It was so loud. If it was possible, it was even louder than Saint Denis. Irish honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if she found out that there was an Angelo Bronte like figure here, too. There were snakes in every city, whether it was the elected officials or someone behind the scenes. People longed for power. It was just something that Irish had noticed.

They were moving slowly. It was something that they had to do in cities just to make sure that they didn’t end up accidentally hitting someone in the streets. No one paid attention to the people around them. Just another thing to hate about cities. Too many people in one place was never a good thing. Irish was more surprised that so many of them were out so early in the morning. Most of the people in the city were too pampered to be up before noon. 

Well, maybe not most of the people. She could see those that were hard workers amongst the crowd. It was easy to see who lived with a silver spoon and who actually worked for what little they had. Even if it weren’t for the dirt caked faces and patched clothing, she’d be able to tell. It was in the way that they held themselves and in their eyes. She could see those that were better off looking down at those working, just barely making enough to survive despite how much effort they were forced to put in. In all honesty Irish was surprised that more people hadn’t decided to be outlaws in these conditions. At least for a while, she had been free to do as she pleased. Nowadays she and Arthur were working properly and honestly. It was different but they got money. Thanks to the survival skills they both had, they didn’t have to waste any of their money on meat or shelter. The basic necessities they had covered. It was a saving grace. One day, they were going to have their own land. Irish had to believe that to keep moving forward without losing hope.

As they continued making their way through the confusing streets, Irish felt a familiar, uncomfortable feeling in her stomach. She brought her horse to a stop, hoping that it was just the rocking movements and the nausea would go away. She should have known better. Almost immediately, she had to dismount. Irish took a few steps towards the alley. She leaned against the wall with her hand over her mouth. In moments Arthur was by her side.

“That’s it. You’re goin’ to a doctor,” Arthur said, rubbing her back.

“We don’t need to waste our money, Arthur. I’ll be fine.” Irish pushed him away and started to walk back to her horse. She keeled over again.

“You are goin’ if I gotta drag you there myself. Please.”

And that was the end of the discussion. Irish was in no condition to stop Arthur and he was entirely capable of carrying her across the city if he had to. She reluctantly followed him, on foot, to the city’s doctor. 

It was a shop settled near the city’s square. It was to the north of a small, enclosed pond. There were people sitting on the benches, reading or smoking or just sitting quietly. It seemed too peaceful, too beautiful to be in a place like this, but there it was regardless. Tall grass grew around the wire fence, intertwining with the metal and providing a splash of colour in an otherwise bleak environment. Arthur held open the door for Irish. She took a deep breath and went in. A secretary looked at them from her desk. She told them to have a seat while she went to fetch the doctor. Irish held her hands in her lap. She knew that there wasn’t anything wrong with her, yet she was still nervous. Arthur was staring at the wall silently. His face wasn’t giving away how he was feeling. Irish wasn’t used to that. They had spent so much time together at this point that she was certain she knew everything that she needed to know about him. Apparently, she had been wrong.

It wasn’t long before the doctor called them back to his office. It was so much bigger than the one she had worked for in Blue Banks. She sat in the chair. She felt even more nervous now, sitting under the gaze of the doctor and answering all of his questions. After writing a few things down, the doctor sat next to Irish.

“All right, I have a serious question for you, Ms. Lucas. When is the last time that you bled?”

Irish scoffed. It was a ridiculous question. But, as she opened her mouth to speak, she realised that she had no idea. Another bad realisation hit Irish. She had seen all of these symptoms before. From Abigail when she was pregnant with Jack. Her eyes widened. No. That couldn’t be it. It wasn’t possible. No. No! 

“Well, then, it seems that you, my dear, are pregnant.”

Irish leaned further back into the chair. She put a hand on her forehead. She didn’t even want to think about it. Arthur walked out of the room. Before Irish could say anything to her, the doctor was pressing a bottle of something into her hands. For her nausea, he said. She tossed a few bills at him and walked out to find Arthur. She couldn’t exactly blame him for running out of the room. If it hadn’t been her getting the news, she would have done the same thing. She had a million thoughts and worried going through her head but the only thing she could focus on was finding Arthur. She knew that this news was surprising to them both. Arthur had been through something like this before with Eliza. Irish knew that one of the last things he had wanted after that was to bring another vulnerable person into this world. It had been hard enough to protect the family that he had already had, let alone a child.

Honestly, she was shocked when she saw that Brigadier was still hitched to the post outside. Arthur was sitting just outside of the gated pond. He was fidgeting with something. Irish took a deep breath. 

“Arthur,” she called out softly.

He stood slowly. He gestured for her to come closer. She hesitated, but did as he asked. He took one of her hands in both of his. She was awed for a moment at how easily he was able to cover them. She was scared of what his reaction was going to be. The look in his eyes was light, soft, even, and so unlike his usual expression. He lowered onto one knee. Irish’s heart fluttered. She hadn’t realised that this was something she wanted until it was right in front of her. Their lives flashed in front of her eyes.

_Two children playing in a large field, just barely in sight of Irish and Arthur. Irish stands to call them back, but Arthur stops her._

_“They’ll be fine, Mrs. Morgan,” he says._

_“You’d better be right, Mr. Morgan,” Irish laughs._

_She sits back down on their deck. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs. They were free. This was the freedom they had searched for so much in their youth. Irish wouldn’t trade a single moment, a single hardship. All of it led up to this._

Yes, she wanted all of that. Of course she did. But not like this. She didn’t want something forced upon them by circumstance.

“Arthur, you do-”

“I know. I know I don’t. Truth be told, this is the reason I came to this city. I was hopin’ to pick up somethin’ a little better than this.” Arthur held out a ring made from one of the long blades of grass. “We been talkin’ ‘bout settlin’ down for a long time. Findin’ a place of our own. But all we really did was talk ‘bout it. Now, we got somethin’ real, somethin’ that’s ours.” He reached to her stomach, resting his hand there. His look remained soft and loving. “It’s been two years since Blackwater. Two years of runnin’ and survivin’. Two years of you takin’ care of me. I want to spend the rest of my life returnin’ the favour, to you and our child. Will you marry me, Irish Hammond?”

She felt a shiver go down her spine at the words. Their child. She looked down at Arthur. She knew that everything he had said was the truth. That was what he wanted. She smiled and placed her hand on his cheek. 

“Get up, you fool. ‘Course I’ll marry you.”

He stood as soon as she said yes. He pulled her into a tight hug, slipping the grass ring around her finger. Irish kissed him. She felt lighter than air. It was like Arthur’s arms around her was the only thing keeping her on the ground now. She still couldn’t fully believe that this was happening. It changed everything. They weren’t just in it for themselves anymore. She held onto him tightly, taking in his touch and smell like it was the one thing left. For the first time since they had started this crazy journey, she was certain that she wasn’t going to lose him. Arthur pulled away and pressed his forehead against his. His hand splayed out across her stomach.

“Can’t believe there’s gonna be another little Irish Hammond walkin’ around,” he joked.

“The world ain’t ready for that. We’re all doomed. Though, if the kid’s got a fraction of your heart, they’ll be all right,” Irish put her hands on either side of his face. Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible even to herself. “I love you, Arthur Morgan.”

“I love you, Irish Hammond.”

They had both had their struggles with love and life. Irish had lost the first love of her life far too young and far too soon. She had been certain that she would never find love again. That she would never find anyone she could trust with her heart. Letting people in had always been hard for Irish. Now, she was going to have two that she was going to have to keep close inside. Arthur had had his own troubles. Mary had broken his heart time and time again. Irish had seen it. She had been the one to piece it back together every time he came back from one of their visits. Eliza and Isaac had given him hope. When they had died, he had locked himself away behind walls that no one could hope to scale. Now that Irish was there, she was going to do whatever it took to keep it in one piece now.

Irish and Arthur left the city soon after that. They both almost forgot to stop and get supplies. There had been a lot going on recently. It took a lot of convincing for Irish to get Arthur not to get them a hotel room. It was far too expensive in the cities and now more than ever, they needed to be saving to buy a small parcel of land. They were going to have a home. A family. A place of their own. Freedom, finally.

Arthur kept his arms wrapped around her waist that night. He buried his face in her neck. They swayed softly to nonexistent music. The beat of their hearts kept time. She pulled him into a teasing kiss, a mere whisper of their lips touching. She couldn’t stop smiling. She wanted to look past just tomorrow to see what was coming next. She wanted to be there for her child, however long that would be. That was all that she could do. It was so strange to think that this child was hers. That this child was Arthur’s. It was certainly something that she was never certain she’d be able to have.

* * *

Golden moonlight bathed through the trees. Irish wasn’t running anymore. She had finally found her moment to catch her breath. Once more, she reached that fork in the road. That fork in the road with those two blurred figures. She stopped and stared up at them. She blinked a few times and they slowly came into focus.

To her right was the young girl who met Dutch van der Linde in a town that she had been forced to live and almost die in. Covered in dirt, blood, and a large grin spread across her face. Auburn hair flew out from a loose ponytail. Wild green eyes showed her joy, her glee, but they hid the pain and loss that she had had to endure.

To her left was an older woman. Her expression was soft, but the joy was much more genuine. It was there not to hide the pain but in spite of it. Her auburn hair was kept neatly in a braid that laid across her shoulder. She kept a small, close lipped smile. It brought a sense of peace with it. 

Two versions of Irish Hammond. Two paths. Two choices. She reached out. She knew what she was going to do. She knew what she wanted. There was a path that she had considered. A path that was far too familiar and a path that was not familiar enough. Only one of them brought her any comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean it's not like I tried to hide it at all.


	22. Sunflower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have put some feels into this one. Also, you may have noticed that I've reduced the length of the story by one chapter. That's entirely because it was easier to combine the last two chapters into one. It made more sense that way and also, each of them were really short anyway. :D

There was a surprising lack of land for sale, even in the west. Arthur and Irish had looked everywhere they could without risking scaling the mountains again or going into West Elizabeth. The Blackwater mess had had enough of an impact that they were both still scared that something bad would happen if they went there now. They had been looking for four months now but had no luck. There was no more hiding the swell of Irish’s belly. She was hoping that they’d find somewhere before then, but they had no luck.

Irish rode ahead. They needed to find some place to settle down for the night. Irish was hoping for an abandoned cottage or something similar. It seemed like it was going to rain soon and she really didn’t want to rely on just their canvas tent. Things like that were finally starting to bother Irish. She was getting more testy about the little things that came with the life of being an outlaw. She hoped to whatever God was out there that it was a change that wouldn’t last. People who lived a pampered life didn’t survive for long in the life that she had lived in.

Then again, she supposed that she wouldn’t be living that life again. She would be living whatever life was best for the thing growing inside of her now. She had to. It was the best course of action. Irish had tried spending so much of her life caring for others but it seemed so much more important than before. She wanted to do more than just care. She wanted to protect and love. She didn’t want that life for her child, either. Irish wanted the world to be open for them.

She got so lost in thought that she almost didn’t see the ranch house in the distance. A light trail of smoke was coming up from the chimney yet it looked abandoned. There were no cattle or crops. In fact, it looked like anything that had been there had died. Irish had the horrible thought that the smoke was from people who had killed those who built this place. Her first instinct was to help if she could. Before she had even realised it, she was heading in the opposite direction. Her hand was resting on her stomach. If there really was danger there, she needed to head in the opposite direction. There was something more important now. She needed to get Arthur, first.

She told him what she had found and he agreed that they would check it out. If it was bandits, they could take them out and take over. If it wasn’t, then maybe they could charm their way into having a place to stay. No matter what happened, Arthur would take the lead. They could both agree that was the best course of action.

Arthur walked up and knocked on the door. They both had their hands ready to pull their guns if necessary. No one answered. Arthur tried again, harder this time. Irish heard something stirring inside. It sounded like bottles hitting the ground from someone’s bed. Struggling footsteps came from inside and a shadow moved passed the window. A few seconds later, there was a thump against the door. 

“Go away,” the voice slurred, “ain’t got nothin’ for ya here.”

Arthur knocked one more time. “You ain’t even gonna see who’s out here?”

The door opened suddenly, aggressively. Irish was a little impressed, considering how drunk the man had sounded. He stood before them hunched over. His shirt had probably once been white, but now she wasn’t sure. His hair was matted and gray, an unruly beard matching his inebriated or hungover state. There was an anger in his eyes that Irish was all too familiar with.

“No. Leave.”

“Let us do some work in return for food and shelter.”

The man laughed loudly, staggering and leaning against the door frame. “Look around, feller. Does it look like I got any work for y’all?” He stepped away, his fingers gripping the edge of the door when he finally looked at Irish. He glanced down. She watched his fingers tremble. He looked away from the duo. He let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. There’s a cottage on the south side of the property. Come up here in the mornin’ after you’re settled. I’ll figure out somethin’ for ya to do.”

“What’s your name?” Arthur asked.

“Kenneth Barlow. You two?”

He hesitated. “Arthur Callahan. This is my fiance, Irish.”

“Hm.”

He shut the door in their faces. 

“What a… charmin’ fella.” Irish scoffed.

“Don’t, Irish. We got a place to stay, at least until the little one gets here. You need your rest and we need money.”

“You sound like Dutch,” she teased, poking his nose. “Let’s go see about this cottage, Mr. Callahan.”

It wasn’t too far away from the main house and it was certainly in the same shape. When Irish opened the door, she had to cough because of all of the dust. The inside was barely livable, but it had a stove, a dining table, and a bed in the corner. With a little bit of work, they’d be able to turn it into a home in no time. They just had to channel Miss Grimshaw. It would take time and effort, but Irish was willing to stay in one place for a while. One place with Arthur. Irish smiled at the ring on her left hand. It was a simple silver band that Arthur had picked up a month or so ago to replace the grass ring he’d given her. She had made sure to keep that one, too. It was pressed into her copy of _Antigone_. It would always be the first ring that he had given to her. 

Arthur pulled Irish into a hug. “Home, for now.”

“Home for now.”

_**Three Months Later** _

Irish poured water into a tin cup and sat down. She had been on her feet for too long. She could not wait for this child to be born so she wouldn’t have to walk with it inside of her anymore. Kenneth smiled up at her.

“Arthur’s out to see if he can’t get some cattle for you today,” Irish said.

“Good, good. Y’know, it’s nice to see this place turnin’ into a ranch again.”

Kenneth launched himself into one of his stories. Since he had gotten used to Irish and Arthur being there, he’d started talking more and drinking less. He’d even shaved off the beard. Without it, he was actually a good looking man. He had just had a hard life. He did love his stories, though. It was one of the things that Irish found herself looking forward to when she would go to see him at the main house. She had gotten to the point in her pregnancy where she couldn’t do much other than normal housework. She found it was more entertaining to do it at the house, listening to Kenneth, than it was to be alone. Kenneth didn’t ask questions about them. He was content to let them open up at their own pace, even if it was slow. They obviously couldn’t mention that they had ever been in a gang and most of their stories together revolved around that. So, they listened. Irish listened.

She learned over time that Kenneth had been a husband and a father, once. When his boy was only eight, his wife had passed from consumption. It was a long fight and he had wished more than once for it to be over quickly. Watching someone you loved die so slowly was horrible. He had done whatever he could to keep his son away from it. When she had died, he had been alone to take care of his son, George. George had taken care of him, too. Until three years ago. Some cattle rustlers had come in the night. George went out to stop them instead of Kenneth and he’d been shot. Killed. Murdered.

Hearing him say that made something feel far too familiar within Irish. She instinctively put a hand on her stomach. Kenneth had let the place go with no one left to inhabit it with him. It was nice to have people there. He was glad that he had let them stay. Irish was glad, too. 

“Y’know, Ken, you remind me of someone. A man that was like a father to me,” Irish smiled.

“Oh yeah? What’s his name? Maybe I’ve met ‘im.”

“Naw, I doubt it. He travelled a lot, sure, but he didn’t make a lot of friends with strangers. No offense, but he probably wouldn’t’ve given you the time of day if he didn’t think he could make a profit. He was always there, though, and always had a good story to tell. His wife, Bessie, took me under her wing when they first found me. I was mad at the world. The two of them showed me a better way.”

“People have a way of bringin’ out the best in us.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes now.”

“Well, now, Irish, I didn’t think you were such a pessimist.”

“Realist.”

“Hmph. You-”

“Arthur’s back!” 

Irish struggled for a moment to get to her feet. She was looking forward to having autonomy again. Arthur was astride Brigadier, marching a herd of cows home. There was someone else behind the herd, helping him. Arthur corralled them into one of the fenced in areas. Kenneth walked out to meet him. Irish stayed on the porch, content to watch for now.

* * *

Irish sat next to Eliza. Her hands were in her lap and she was waiting for Arthur. He was out with Isaac now. Fishing, probably. Irish had come on this outing but she didn’t want to intrude. She knew how much Isaac meant to him. Even Eliza had a special place in his heart. Just as she should. 

“I seen the way he looks at you,” Eliza said, breaking the silence.

“Seen the way who looks at me?” Irish scoffed.

“Arthur.” Eliza laughed, lightly pushing Irish’s shoulder away. “Like you’re his world.”

“I think you got me confused with Isaac.”

“True, he does love that boy. More than I hoped he might. For that, I am beyond grateful. Isaac’ll grow up havin’ a father. But it’s different with you. After all, he brought you here, didn’t he?”

Irish looked towards the path where a few hours ago, Arthur and Isaac had disappeared. “He’s a good friend. We been through a lot together. Lost a lot together, too.”

“You make him happy.”

“So do the two of you.”

“Not in the same way. I can’t always be there and _he_ won’t always be here.”

Irish leaned forward. Eliza was right in one aspect. Arthur wouldn’t always be here with his son and Eliza. She wasn’t sure that there was anything that anyone could do to convince that man to leave the gang behind. Even now that he had a son, he would still put himself in the line of fire ahead of any other member. Dutch and Hosea were like fathers to him. He probably felt that the only way he could really do right by them was by staying, dying for them, even if it meant leaving something else behind. Irish didn’t doubt that Eliza could take care of herself _and_ Isaac. She just didn’t think that she _had_ to do it alone. It was then and there that Irish made up her mind. If Arthur was going to be the protector of the rest of the gang, then Irish would protect Arthur. She would make sure that he would always come home. It was the least that she could do in return for everything he had ever done for her.

Arthur came riding up on Boadicea with Isaac riding in front of him. Irish could really see the similarities between them. He had his mother’s eyes, but the dirty blond hair was all Arthur. He was a cute kid, Happy, too, even if they didn’t have much. Arthur lowered Isaac to the ground, jumping down after him. Isaac immediately ran to Eliza. Irish walked up to Arthur. SHe looked up at him with a small smile.

“What?” Arthur asked.

“Nothin’. We’d best be headin’ back to camp,” Irish responded.

* * *

Arthur still couldn’t believe that he had a kid. A kid this great, too. Isaac was kind and curious. Arthur could barely keep up with him. Even now he had endless questions about the fish they were catching. Arthur couldn’t help but feel that he should’ve brought Hosea with him on this trip. But then again, Hosea was still reeling from the loss of Bessie. He wasn’t exactly fit to be around children yet. One day, though, Arthur would make sure that they met.

After a few more hours, they headed back. Arthur pulled Isaac up after him. It wasn’t too long of a ride back, but Arthur wanted to enjoy this. He knew that he’d have to go back to his real life as soon as he reached Eliza and Irish. A few more moments to pretend like he was a father. A husband. If he was a different man, a better man, then he’d stay here and he would marry Eliza. He could be happy with her. For a time, anyway. Still, he’d lose his mind soon enough. He couldn’t just leave Dutch and the others behind. He’d never leave this life. That was why he lost Mary. That was why he never stayed for too long. He couldn’t give false hope. Eliza said she knew what he was. What this had been. Arthur still felt guilty when he left.

As he broke through the trees, he saw Irish and Eliza standing there. Irish perked up when she saw them. The sun glinted off her long auburn hair and she smiled at him. He could feel his heart skip a beat then. It was just another thing that he wouldn’t be able to change. He couldn’t bring her down with him. At least he could protect her. She was his family, too. More than she would ever know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes. Feels. Refusing to acknowledge or confess feelings. It has it all.


	23. Meet Virginia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter. The end of this awesome journey. Thank you, all of you, for reading this whole thing! Each time I got a comment or kudos notification, it would bring a smile to my face and send a wave of inspiration through me!

Irish wished it was a pain that she could ignore. She had been shot more times than she cared to count but that pain was nothing compared to this. It was like getting stabbed a hundred times with a dull blade in her stomach. She stumbled when she was trying to walk back inside and that was when she knew that it was time. It was time for this child to be born. She found herself wishing that she had more time. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready for this to become even more real than it already was but it seemed like she didn’t have a choice anymore. This was happening. Now. It was just like what had happened with Abigail and Jack. Only then, Irish had been able to run and hide. She didn’t have that choice this time.

As soon as Arthur realised what was happening, he was on Brigadier heading to the nearest town. He didn’t want to leave, but he knew that he had to get a doctor back to the ranch as soon as he could and he was a better rider than Ken. He just had to trust that Kenneth, who had already been through this once, would have an idea of what to do. Irish had that same hope. She was scared and she hated that Arthur was there with her as she laid down on a bed. She felt alone. What if he didn’t get back in time? Would she be forced to do this by herself? She knew that Kenneth was there, but it wasn’t the same. She needed Arthur to get back as soon as possible. 

Would she survive this? It was too real of a possibility. She could die. Her child could die. She could leave Arthur all alone. No. No, she couldn’t. That was the last thing she wanted. She hated that thought. She hated the pain. She hated this child every time a contraction hit. She hated Arthur. A part of her wanted to shoot him. Her exclamations just made Kenneth laugh. His wife had said similar things. His stories were just barely enough to take her mind off of the pain. She focused on anything else. She could only do it for so long. Irish threw her head back against the pillows. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she held back a scream. It stuck in her throat. She wanted it out. She wanted to close her eyes and have this all be over. Just like that.

After what felt like days to Irish, Arthur came back with a doctor. He immediately was by her side, holding her hand and pushing back her hair. Even as she screamed curses at him, he was comforting her. He was telling her what a good job she was doing. How proud of her he was. How excited he was to meet this kid. Her cries finally had a voice. Arthur gave her a strength that she needed more than she’d ever realised. Nothing could compare to this. Nothing ever would compare to it again. How was this something that anyone had ever endured before? Irish was surprised that the human race hadn’t died out. She leaned back against the pillows again, closing her eyes.

_Two versions of Irish Hammond bathed in golden light. Two paths. Two choices. She reached out. She knew what she was going to do. She knew what she wanted. There was a path that she had considered. A path that was far too familiar and a path that was not familiar enough. Only one of them brought her any comfort._

_Irish walked towards the left. To the older woman. Her younger self simply shrugged, still smiling, and walked deep into the woods. The older woman held out her hand. Irish gladly took it. The woman faded away into the golden light as Irish headed down the path. A bright white light was waiting for her at the end of the path. It was warm and welcoming. It was the promise of a future. The promise of a world where she didn’t have to run anymore. She could live in peace with her child and her husband. She could live a real life without having to think about if she would be dead the next day. No more stray bullets. What more could she possibly ask for?_

“C’mon, darlin’, just one more and you’re there!” Arthur’s voice pulled Irish back to reality.

She screamed as she pushed one final time. When she finally fell silent again, breathing heavily, tears mixing with sweat, she could hear the cries of her child. The doctor said something, but Irish wasn’t listening. Her child was placed in her arms, still crying. Irish whispered to the baby. It was her daughter. A beautiful baby girl. She was so tiny. How could something so tiny survive something so traumatic? Irish couldn’t believe it. She had been so certain that something would go wrong. 

“That’s it, baby, you’re all right now,” Irish whispered. She kissed her forehead, saying her mother’s charm softly. “You’re okay.”

After a few moments, the baby stopped crying. Arthur tentatively sat next to Irish on the bed. He was watching the two of them in awe. The rest of the world disappeared around them. Irish looked at Arthur with a grin. She forgot about how hard it had been. She didn’t need to worry about that anymore. It was over and she was left with this amazing, tiny thing in her arms. Arthur swallowed hard. His eyes were wide.

“D’you wanna hold her?” Irish asked.

“Can I?”

She laughed, trying not to disturb the newborn too much. “‘Course you can. She’s your daughter, after all.”

Irish was careful in how she handed her off to Arthur, but she didn’t need to be. Arthur knew how to hold her already. This wasn’t his first time, after all. Kenneth pressed a kiss to Irish’s forehead and left the room with the doctor, leaving the family alone. The baby was so small in Arthur’s arms. Irish had never before seen so much love in his eyes. Tears threatened to leave his eyes at any moment. He murmured sweet words to her. Irish couldn’t make them out. She leaned back against the pillows. She was beyond exhausted.

It came to her suddenly. A name. A good name.

“What if we named her Virginia?” Irish asked.

“Sure. Yeah. It’s a good name for her,” Arthur said. He sounded like he was a million miles away. He was lost in Virginia’s eyes, studying every feature of her face. “She’s so small.” Irish nodded, leaning against his shoulder. “Get some rest, darlin’. Virginia and I will be here when you wake up.”

Irish couldn’t have agreed more. Arthur helped her up to the other side of the bed. When she was laying down, he pulled blankets over her as best he could with one hand.

* * *

Arthur stared down at Isaac resting in his crib. He ran a hand across his cheeks. A heavy stubble had grown in. He hadn’t known what to feel when Eliza had told him she was pregnant. He hadn’t known what to feel for a long time. Now, he could only feel love. Nothing would ever be the same. How had he contributed to something so precious? He had a son. He was a father. He vowed to be a better one than his own dad. He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he had to try. He owed it to the boy. He knew that he couldn’t always be there, but he would do his best.

His hands were shaking as he reached down to stroke the boy’s cheek. It was softer than he had been expecting. Isaac was sleeping soundly. Apparently, that was a rare occurrence. Eliza was sleeping, too, on the bed in the corner. It was just Arthur awake in this darkness. It was so peaceful. For the first time, he thought about truly leaving the life. He knew it wasn’t something he’d be able to live with. It was a nice thought, though. A family. His son. Domestic life.

He thought of Dutch and Hosea, waiting for him to come back. Irish, who had practically dragged him here herself. He couldn’t leave them behind. There was a pang in his heart as he looked at his son and came to these realisations. For now, he would push that away. He would just focus on the present. On the sleeping child in front of him.

* * *

Arthur kept Virginia close to his chest. He didn’t want to put her down, not for an instant. She was so quiet. Even with her eyes open, staring up at him, she was quiet. It was like she was studying him just as much as she was studying him. She wrapped a tiny hand around one of his fingers.

“I’m gonna keep you safe.” He promised. “You and your mama, Virginia. You’re always gonna have what you need. I’ll always protect you. I promise.”

* * *

Arthur looked at himself in the mirror. He straightened out his shirt a little. It wasn’t a suit, but it was nice, at least. It was good enough for him and Irish. Probably nicer than they would have gone for if they were in the camp still. But now he wanted to look nice. Irish deserved it. He took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure why the thought of marrying her was making him so nervous. He was excited, too. They had been putting it off for long enough. Irish had wanted to wait for a few months so they could focus on Virginia. That, and they were still struggling to get the ranch up and running. This was a rare day off. It was a day for a celebration.

He walked towards the door. His hand hesitated by the handle. Arthur took another breath. This was all going to be fine. He walked outside. Kenneth was there.

“You ready?” He asked.

“Let’s do this.”

Kenneth brought Arthur outside. It was mostly the same, with its light dust and sparse grass. The few horses that they had and the cattle were out grazing. The main house was adorned with flowers and lanterns that they had gotten from town. A priest was standing by the door. He was so different from Reverend Swanson. Much more composed. Arthur felt a pang in his chest. It would have been more meaningful if it had been Swanson. Even in his darkest, most drugged-up moments, he was a part of the family. He probably would have even straightened himself out for this moment.

The front door opened. The first thing Arthur saw was a glimpse of white fabric. Irish stepped out fully. She was holding a bouquet of wildflowers. The dress was pure white. Arthur had never really been one to pay attention to things like fashion, but even he had to stop and admire just how beautiful Irish was standing there. Her auburn hair was loose around her shoulders. It had grown long again. She was smiling wide. Arthur was awestruck.

* * *

It was Kenneth who had suggested getting a priest and using the ranch house for the wedding. Irish would have been content if it was just her and Arthur alone exchanging vows. Kenneth had wanted it to be more official than all of that. Something about saving the soul of Virginia. Irish didn’t really believe in that kind of stuff, but Kenneth was kind enough to let them stay there. She was willing to do it for him. He had even offered his wife’s old wedding dress for her to wear. Irish was just surprised that it fit her at all.

She could barely recognise herself in the mirror. She had dressed nicer than she had in her whole life. She had thought that it would feel uncomfortable or wrong. She hadn’t realised just how wrong that assumption was. She smiled. She was ready to go. She was ready to be married. She had never truly thought that she’d be married. Not after Layton. There had been other people in her life. People that she had used to plug the hole in her heart. They’d be gone just as soon as they arrived. Arthur was the only one that had stayed. He was the only one that she had ever wanted to stay.

She walked outside. Arthur was already there, waiting. He turned on his heel and stared at her. The love was all in his eyes. He was wearing a grey shirt with the top few buttons undone. He’d even worn his nice jeans. He cleaned up well. Kenneth was holding Virginia in his arms. Even the baby was dressed in white. The priest waited patiently for the couple to stand before each other. The ceremony was simple. Easy. Much easier than she had thought it would be. Maybe it was because it was just a few people. It didn’t really matter. Irish just stared at Arthur with all the love that she could muster.

They hadn’t written vows for each other. Those were moments, those words, saved for when they were in private. When it was finally over, the priest was sent away. The reception was just the four of them. Kenneth spent most of his time holding Virginia, letting Irish and Arthur dance or talk or sneak away. 

Irish inspected the golden ring on Arthur’s hand. It stood out brightly. She leaned against his shoulder. Things were finally perfect. It was how she had always wanted to live. She walked to get Virginia from Kenneth. Her family. It was small and she doubted that it would be easy, but she knew that it was hers. She would do whatever she had to do to protect them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They get a daughter and they get married. Happy days. Happy times. :D


	24. If Arthur had TB

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So then, you're probably wondering what this is. Well, if you didn't read the title, that is. Anyway, I was sitting at work, waiting desperately for some customers to come in so I could help them leave locked rooms with various hints and puzzles and I thought: what if Arthur really had gotten tuberculosis? What would happen between Irish and Arthur? I tried to make it a little obvious that they had had feelings in some capacity for each other. What if there was a catalyst that forced them together, even for a short time? And so, this was created. There's more that will hopefully come along with this in terms of one shots and headcanons. Like LH Arthur Morgan. That would be so interesting to delve into.

Irish tightened her grip on the reins. How could Dutch just not care about getting John back? Something had changed him. It was more than just Blackwater. Irish could see that now. Micah was always in his ear. Dutch wasn’t the same man Irish had followed all those years ago. He was murdering innocent people. He was leaving _family_ behind to rot in prison cells. She couldn’t help but wonder who was next. Was it her? What about Arthur? Irish’s blood ran cold. What if it _was_ Arthur next? She looked over at him. He had been with the group longer than anyone else. Would Dutch… _could_ Dutch turn on him, too? She didn’t want to wait and find out. _That_ was why she’d agreed with this crazy plan of Sadie’s. Irish had to make sure that John got back to his family.

Arthur started coughing loudly. It wasn’t uncommon for him since Guarma. Irish waited for the fit to pass like it usually did. Only, this time, it didn’t. Arthur just kept on coughing. He got off his horse and he was still coughing. He didn’t stop until he was passed out on the ground. Irish jumped off of her horse and ran to him. She put her head on his chest. He was still breathing, but only just. It was raspy and shallow. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Why was this happening now?

She shook Arthur, trying to wake him up. She needed him to wake up. Irish could feel tears stinging behind her eyes. The only thing that she could do now was try and drag him to the doctor herself. The only problem was that Saint Denis was like a maze. She wasn’t sure that she’d be able to make it in time. Was he dying? Was that what this was? What if he really _was_ dying?

No. No! She wasn’t having it. Irish forced him around a corner. Arthur’s eyes flickered open. She saw that as hope.

“Can you stand?” she asked.

He grunted in affirmation. It only spurred on another coughing fit. Irish was quick to help him to his feet. She kept one arm on his waist, the other tightly gripping his arm. It was much easier now. She gave him words of encouragement until they were through the door.

She pretended that she couldn’t see the blood on his hand and around his mouth.

The secretary looked like she’d seen a ghost when they stepped inside. They didn’t even have to say anything for her to call the doctor out. He led them back to the exam room. Arthur sat in the chair. Irish paced and tossed some bills at the doctor. She couldn’t really pay attention to what they were talking about. Not until the doctor sat down and lit his pipe.

“I’m sorry, son, but you’ve got tuberculosis.”

The word bounced around Irish’s mind. She’d seen what it did to people. There was no way that Arthur had it. He couldn’t. Where would he even have gotten it from? No one else in camp was showing symptoms. It wasn’t possible. She looked over at him. He was her best friend. He’d saved her life so many times. She had promised to pay him back for that, but how could she now? 

“It’s a nasty business, for sure.”

“What can we do?” Irish asked.

“Get him somewhere high and dry. He’ll be able to live peacefully, then. It’ll help with his symptoms.”

“Does it look like I can just go off on a vacation?” Arthur snapped. He put his hat back on. “Thank you.”

Without another word, he left. Irish gave her own rushed thanks and followed Arthur. He was walking down the street slowly. Irish caught up to him. She intertwined her fingers with his. He didn’t look at her. His eyes were blank as he stared at the ground. Irish didn’t know what to do. How could she do anything for something like this?

“We should leave,” Irish said, “do like that doctor said, find somewhere high and dry. It ain’t like they gonna miss us much anyhow.”

“You know that ain’t true. We can’t go anywhere.”

“Why the hell not?!” It was Irish’s turn to snap. “You’ve done more than your fair share for the rest of us. You’re the only reason I’ve even stayed this long! What am I supposed to do if you… if you…”

She hugged him. Her arms were wrapped tight around his waist. His vest was rough against her cheek. Arthur hesitated before hugging her back.

“I can’t lose you, Arthur. I don’t think my heart can take losin’ someone else that I…”

“I know.”

He was the one comforting her. It was his death sentence but it was like it didn’t even phase him. No, it had. It had to have done something. He was just hiding it so he could take care of Irish instead. He was always doing things like that.

“Why? Arthur, it’s your turn to be selfish. It might be the only time that you get to be. Please, Arthur, be selfish. Just this once. Please.”

A tear finally fell down her cheek. This was what was making her realise it now. The way her heart hurt… this was a familiar feeling. Of course it was Arthur’s death that was making her realise it now. Afterall, hadn’t she closed herself off after Layton? Of course there had been flings. She’d had her fun, but she never let herself fall in love. Only, she had. Somewhere in the 12 years since she’d joined the gang, she’d fallen in love with Arthur Morgan.

“All right. You, me, and Sadie. We’ll get John out and take his family with us. Of course, we can’t leave behind the rest of the girls in camp. Pearson and Uncle should come too, in that case. Let’s say we take ‘em all. What then? We’re still wanted. Dutch’ll come after us. If he don’t, Micah will. We’ll still be on the run.”

“If you stay here, you’ll die.”

“If I leave, I’ll die. The place don’t change nothin’ about this.”

“I ain’t fair.”

“I know, darlin’.” He pulled away from her, resting a hand against her cheek. She leaned into his touch. “I will promise this. Dutch ain’t gonna get anyone else killed. If it’s the last thing I do, y’all are gonna be safe.”

That would have to be enough. It wasn’t like she could force him to leave. Irish would just have to settle for this. She would do whatever it took to help him. She had to. She wouldn’t let him die alone. That much was certain.

They whistled for their horses.

“Don’t tell anyone about this, Irish.”

“Of course not, Arthur. We should go find Sadie before she tries to storm the place on her own.”

Arthur smiled. “She’d probably win, too.”

Irish nodded. She watched Arthur move away from her on his horse. She memorised as many features on his face as she could. She would remember him like this. She would remember the good moments. To forget how much this hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of angst, but it had to happen my guys. Just remember in _my_ canon, they're happy with a daughter.


	25. LH Arthur Morgan Headcanons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, week days are slow at work. I get too much time to write things like this down.
> 
> Also, [here's a link to a spotify playlist with all the songs I used for the chapter titles.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/04q9FRTqg25jHo2U2LxYit?si=-QiT6Nc-QquBwL-dB0-YbQ)

-He would have started their “relationship”, either after a stressful job or Irish putting herself in harm’s way. They get into a heated argument. Arthur pushed Irish against something and kissed herself. It wasn’t passionate or loving. It was hungry. Irish was shocked. So much so that she didn’t argue when he ordered her to strip.

-From then on, they would use each other to relieve stress. 

-Micah made some lewd comments towards Irish one night, resulting in Arthur’s fist in his face. For a while, Arthur left camp after that. Irish naturally assumed it was to cool off and not kill Micah. In a sense, he did leave to cool off, but it wasn’t because of Micah.

-Irish would be the first to admit that she’d caught feelings, but not to Arthur. One of the other girls pointed it out to her. She overreacted by overcompensating for something else. She made a conscious effort to see him less. Emotion was the last thing their already fragile situation needed.

-The fact that after this she started to let guys in bars flirt with her again drove Arthur crazy. Crazy enough to almost fight the whole town until Irish practically dragged him back to camp.

-They fought. It was loud and drew the attention of the rest of the camp to them. Irish would not allow herself to be treated like his property. Irish stormed out of camp that night.

-Arthur watched her go in disbelief, anger, and a little twinge of guilt. Dutch clapped him on his shoulder and welcomed him to the fine world of women.

-Irish paced around the woods for hours. She was steaming, beyond pissed. He had no right to treat her like she was his property. She kicked a tree stump in her frustration.  
The noise she was making attracted some O’Driscolls to her location. She had left camp so quickly that she left all of her gear back in camp. 

-It didn’t take too long for her to run out of ammo.

-She dove for cover and tried to think of an escape plan.

-Hosea convinced Arthur to go after Irish and apologise, but Arthur wasn’t entirely sure for what. He grumbled about it the whole time he was tracking her.  
Of course, what he found was Irish cornered by a bunch of O’Driscoll assholes. 

-Together, they could easily kill the rest of the men.

-Irish expected Arthur to give her a lecture.

-Instead, she got a kiss.

-It was different than any other they’d shared. It wasn’t rushed and desperate, filled with nothing but desire. It was a combination of every single emotion that they’d been holding back from each other.

-Arthur was still protective of her after this, usually keeping her in his lap when they were in camp or at a saloon, but he would back off if she told him too.


End file.
